Time to give the Leafs tough love

LEAF FANS HAVE TO STOP ACCEPTING MEDIOCRITY AND START DEMANDING A REBUILDING PHASE

I’m a diehard Toronto Maple Leafs fan. You know the type; I bleed blue and white, herald the 1993 Campbell Conference final as “the glory days,” and pretty much exemplify everything non-Leaf fans hate about Leaf fans. If Toronto won the Stanley Cup, I’d be drunk, crying, naked and/or arrested in minutes.

I’m as annoying and obsessive as any Bud fan out there. I want to read about trade rumors every day in the paper. I’ll listen to Leafs radio shows in July.

So let’s talk hockey, baby, starting with last Saturday’s Leafs/Rangers tilt. Yeah, man…what a game. With all that…puck hitting…and stuff. And the big hit by that guy. And the goals. And…

…so I didn’t watch the game. A diehard Leaf fan didn’t watch the game. Sacrilege, right? You know what’s even worse? I chose not to watch. I didn’t want to watch. Hell, I didn’t want them to win. I wanted them to get crushed. But I didn’t feel right cheering against the team I love, so I looked away.

Shut up, crybaby lynch mob attacking me and claiming I’m not a true Leaf fan because I want my favorite team to lose. No, you shut up. No, YOU SHUT UP. You’re wrong. A real fan wants the team to succeed. And by succeed, I don’t mean your definition of success. I don’t mean finish eighth. I don’t mean win a first-round playoff series. I mean contend. I mean win a friggin’ Stanley Cup. If we actually want a Cup, we need heads to roll. We need to start from square one, even if that means blowing up the team, Florida Marlins-style. And the only way that’ll ever happen is if we become bad enough that management has to make changes.

There’s a strange sense of shoulder-shrugging helplessness in Leaf Nation. We think the team has fucked itself so badly that it can never, ever recover. Wake up. It’s not that the Leafs situation can’t change; it’s just that it can’t change without a few years of suffering.

Let’s dispel a few of those “unfixable problem” myths, shall we?

MYTH: Everything is John Ferguson Jr.’s fault and firing him will solve the problem.

Fergie’s ugly situation is as much a product of his contract as it is anything else. Think about it. If someone gives you a one-year extension and openly puts a gun to your head, will you make moves to help your team in the long term or the short term? Of course he keeps throwing dough at veterans. I don’t blame the guy at all.

Say you work in sales for a big corporation and you’re struggling. Your boss tells you to make money or hit the road. Would you make modest moves for mild but definite success or would you bust out your “five-year plan” that’ll lose the company money at first but help it in the long run? What if you have kids to feed?

MYTH: John Ferguson Jr. is a competent general manager who deserves to keep his job and will make the right moves under a different contract.

I’m not contradicting myself, I swear. Just because I don’t blame him for his recent mistakes doesn’t mean he isn’t a fucking idiot. This is the same guy who signed geriatric Eddie Belfour to a colossal contract during the lockout and made Jason Allison put on skates and play “hockey” for the Toronto Maple Leafs. The current mess ain’t all his fault, but he still has to go. He couldn’t spot a good trade or draft pick if it took a shit on his face.

MYTH: All the Leafs’ financial advantages are gone in the salary cap era.

This team is still backed by the Ontario Teacher’s Pension Plan and sells out every game, yet its scouts may literally be monkeys trained by people with Down syndrome. I heard a great idea on the radio the other day: find the 10 best scouts in the NHL and offer to double their salaries. Maybe even triple them. We sure as Hell can afford it. Maybe then we’d draft Zetterbergs and Stastnys instead of trying to convince fans Jiri Tlusty is a future star.

MYTH: There is no suitor for Bryan McCabe.

Come on. Someone has room for him. Plenty of teams could use his point shot on the power play. The New York Rangers are reportedly pursuing Ed Jovanovski aggressively, so can you honestly tell me they wouldn’t have placed a call about McCabe, a highly similar player in skill, defensive “merit” and salary?

MYTH: Nik Antropov is untouchable.

Yeah, he’s having a breakout year, but he’s also made of Popsicle sticks and he’s an unrestricted free agent in 2009. Think the Leafs will be Cup contenders by 2009? Trading him at his peak value wouldn’t be a horrible idea.

MYTH: Leaf Nation would get angry and stop filling the building if Toronto underwent a rebuilding period.

This one gets me the most. Toronto is supposedly the “Hockey Mecca.” So how can anyone think the so-called most knowledgeable, faithful hockey fans on the planet wouldn’t understand or accept a rebuilding period? These aren’t the Nashville Predators or Kansas City Laser Hawks (just guessing at what the team name will be). We see how Anaheim built itself into a powerhouse. We see that Chicago looks scarier by the game after stockpiling high draft picks. If you’re a real Leafs fan, you know a temporary period of futility will do wonders for the greater good.

If Leaf management disagrees with the idea of Toronto accepting a rebuilding period, it’s contradicting itself. It currently maintains a mediocre status quo because “The fans will always fill the seats, so why spend more money to make the team better?” If the fans will always fill the seats, you can start from scratch and they’ll forgive you.

Better yet, Leaf management can ship off its high-priced veterans, hang way under the cap and still make profit.

“Larkin, you idiot,” you say. “It’s not that easy. No one will just inhale Pavel Kubina’s contract.”

Yes, they will. They’ll eat up his contract if you give them a totally lopsided deal. Seriously. That’s what Leafs management needs to do. It should pull a Rob Babock, swallow its pride, say “We were wrong on this one,” and systematically cast away its vets for next to nothing. Get low-round picks, young underachievers, anything. Even throw cash into the deal if you have to. But get the Kubinas, Gills and McCabes of the world off the team and start from scratch, almost as if it’s an expansion team.

Now, there are a few exceptions. Unless he requests a trade to a contender, Mats Sundin may have to finish his career a Leaf. Toronto fans are knowledgeable, yes, but they’re also more sentimental than Mom on prom night. Trading away the team’s longest-serving captain and all-time leading scorer in what could be his final season would be unforgivable for some. Same may go for fan-favourite Darcy Tucker, whom many call the "heart and soul" of the team and who took a hometown discount to stay here. Fine. Sundin can ride out his contract and we can keep Tucker around for veteran leadership.

I don’t include Matt Stajan, Kyle Wellwood, Alex Steen, and the other young vets when I say ship off the veterans. The young ones can stay, but we have to understand that these guys aren’t franchise players or “building blocks.” They’re solid yet unspectacular players who could be useable cogs in a championship machine but are also expendable. Except for you, Tomas Kaberle. We love you. Sorry for putting up with all this garbage. Please don’t leave us.

Do all these ideas sound absolutely insane? Yes. But they could fix the Leafs’ nightmare. That’s how fucked the current situation is. I know I’m not alone on this one; plenty of Leaf fans agree with me, which further suggests Leaf Nation would accept a rebuilding phase.

Quoting colleague and Leaf fan Hurk: “I just played 160 games of NHL 08 on Xbox 360 and missed the playoffs two straight seasons. I think I can be patient with the Leafs if they rebuild.”

The Leafs are in a Bizarro world right now. Moving up in the standings – say, climbing to seventh in the conference en route to being ousted by Carolina in six games in round one – is a move away from a Stanley Cup. Dismantling the franchise top to bottom and, consequently, moving back in the standings, brings us closer to glory.

If you’re a crappy Leaf fan who “really started getting into hockey when all my friends were watching their deep playoff run in 2002,” you probably think the idea of rebuilding is criminally insane. But to us real Leaf fans, the Buds are our babies. We’re their parents, and it’s about time we gave them some tough love. Don’t cheer for them; that would just validate their crappiness and encourage them to keep “trying” and playing mediocre hockey. Maybe even boo them if you can stomach it. In doing so you’ll be increasing our chances at breaking the Cup curse.

Yep, things are that bad.

-- M.L.

UFC offers much more than your average schoolyard scrap

I should have listened to Larkin sooner.

It’s tough to take his word. Sure, he steered me onto Lost, whole wheat bread and Rotoworld.com. But he’s also suggested Survivor, baby food and Oprah.com. So you can understand why I didn’t exactly scramble for the TV remote when he started nagging me to watch UFC.

But damn, was he ever right this time.

I’d heard the arguments from him and his friends numerous times. “Mixed martial arts (MMA) is the fastest growing sport in the world, there’s so much skill and strategy involved, it’s vastly underrated, blah blah blah.” Give me a break. Unless Mike Tyson is fighting a kangaroo, I’d rather spend six hours in a sauna with Mike Holmgren while he polishes off a four-gallon tub of potato salad than watch boxing at this point; why would I bother with a trashy, second-rate version that’s a cross between WWE and kickboxing?

That perception, however, couldn’t be further from reality. Last Saturday, Larkin convinced me to watch this month’s pay-per-view, UFC 76: Knockout. Expecting a sloppy, barbaric tussle resembling a couple of pudgy elementary school kids fighting until they were exhausted, red-faced and their t-shirt necks stretched down to their chests, I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised. These guys don’t just climb into a ring and beat each other’s kidneys until their urine turns red – I mean, they do – but rather display an impressive array of styles and techniques. There are Jujitsu masters, Muay Thai fighters, NCAA wrestling champions. And yeah, there are even “strikers” who stick with a good old fashioned pummelling by fists.

I could ramble on for a few paragraphs about how surprisingly skilled and graceful MMA is (well, as graceful as you can be when you’re repeatedly elbowing a dude in the face), but you know what? I’m new to the sport. I don’t really know what the hell I’m talking about. But that’s part of the appreciation of MMA. Only now is it beginning to achieve mainstream success and it’s a blast learning about a new sport, particularly the nuances. We all love hockey, baseball, football and basketball, and most fans are always learning something new about their favourite sport, but it isn’t often an entirely new sport comes along into which we can engross ourselves. It was fun learning throughout Saturday’s event, picking up on things in the final match that I never would have noticed in the first. It’s like the first time I started watching offensive line play in football instead of following the quarterback. You enjoy a growing appreciation for the game.

Throw in the fact that some of these guys are real characters and you’ve got yourself a hell of a sport. Ultimate Fighting Championship is probably worth following for Forrest Griffin alone. The brawling everyman is as humble as he is fun to watch in the ring. After his win over Mauricio Rua, an ecstatic, child-like Griffin said he’d promised his mother he wouldn’t curse during interviews before happily exclaiming “I ain’t that great, but I’ll fight anybody.”

Griffin highlights the interesting fact that not every fighter carries himself with the arrogance and pomp of boxers. Some of these guys were intelligent, honourable dudes. They’d go out of their way to say yes, of course they want to win, but that they respect their opponent. After the “Dean of Mean” Keith Jardine dispatched former champion Chuck “Iceman” Liddell (that’s another thing – everyone has a cool nickname. There’s Rampage, Shogun and my personal favourite, Axe Murderer. You know the Axe Murderer is 100 per cent badass), he was sure to compliment Liddell during a post-fight interview, noting he was honoured to beat the former champ and referring to him as the greatest fighter in UFC history. A pleasant but far cry from boxers constantly labelling themselves as the greatest ever, yes? And don’t worry – there’s still some cocky douches thrown in for good measure.

After watching Saturday’s event, there’s no doubt in my mind UFC should be a regular favourite of most sports fans. Maybe this article is pointless. Maybe you’re saying “Hey, dickwad, everyone has heard about UFC – thanks for joining the bandwagon three years late.” But I watch a lot of sports and if I’m not watching UFC, it likely means there’s a lot more people out there who would enjoy it just as much if they gave it a chance.

Download UFC 76. All five fights essentially went the distance and it features a variety of styles and fighters; it’s the perfect event for your first UFC experience. Do you prefer raw savagery and violence, like a strong safety gliding over the middle and ear-holing a receiver? Mixed martial arts has it. Interested in strategy and nuance, like a crafty veteran forward letting the puck pass through his feet so a teammate can bury it for a goal? Mixed martial arts has that, too.

Just be open minded and give the sport a shot – hey, it’s not like I’m asking you to check out equestrian (though, if I learn they’ve got a rider nicknamed the Axe Murderer…)

--I.V.

Ignorance is bliss

SPORTS MEDIA HAVE BLOWN PERFORMANCE-ENHANCING DRUG SCANDALS OUT OF PROPORTION. EITHER WE TURN A BLIND EYE TO SAVE OUR ENJOYMENT OF PRO SPORTS OR WE START CONDEMNING ALL PERFORMANCE ENHANCERS -- NOT JUST DRUGS.


“I know what you’re thinking. Why, oh why, didn’t I take the blue pill?”

Sound familiar? It should. It’s from The Matrix. Cypher, played by Joe Pantoliano before his Ralph Cifaretto days, utters the line to Agent Smith.

Cypher has an epiphany. He realizes that some things are best kept in the dark – in this case, the fact that all humans were slaves, “grown” so robots can harvest their energy and imprisoned in the Matrix.

In theory, being taken over by robots sucks. No species wants to be captured and enslaved. But let’s stop for a second and cut the noble bullshit. Why was humankind better outside the Matrix? Why were a scorched Earth, no jobs, no TV, no video games, and no sports better than the Matrix, especially when we didn’t know the truth once wired in?

Now apply that theory to sports and the giant, black cloud that is steroid use. The media blitz has yanked us from the world of ignorance, exposed us to a harsh, cold real world of cheaters and become so relentless, so blown out of proportion, that it’s robbing our ability to enjoy sports.

See Rick Ankiel throw 839 wild pitches in one inning. See Rick Ankiel leave baseball in shambles. See Rick Ankiel make one of the most memorable comebacks in sports history, returning as a hitter and jacking bombs like he’s been doing nothing else his entire life. See sports media – guys like us – tear Rick Ankiel to pieces as fast as he built himself back up. Why? Because Rick Ankiel used a now-banned substance several years ago when it was completely legal.

For me, that was the last straw.

Sportscentre looks more like Entertainment Tonight or, worse, Dateline NBC, every day. Want highlights at the top of the hour? What are you smoking? The show starts with crime and scandal, from dog fighting, to gambling, to drunk driving, to performance-enhancing drugs.

Sports media are trapped. They can’t not tell us if Ron Mexico electrocutes a pooch or Chris Benoit offs himself. It’s become their journalistic obligation. But when we turn on guys like Ankiel, that obligation looks more like an unhealthy obsession. And it’s destroying pro sports as we know them.

Records become more meaningless every day. We can’t let anything be. It’s not just Barry Bonds and the home run record anymore; Gary Player had the nerve to hint at steroid use in golf. Golf? Are you kidding me? Go back to shooting 79s in honourary opening rounds at majors, Gary.

No one will deny that 2007 has been a nightmare for professional sports, with new bombshells dropping as often as Mike Holmgren says “Can you supersize that?” With performance-enhancing drugs, particularly in baseball, the biggest shocker this summer has been the sheer number of athletes busted or at least linked to use – from Gary Matthews Jr., to A-Rod, to Troy Glaus, to Jay Gibbons.

The huge number of potential users is troubling, particularly when bigwigs like J.P. Ricciardi suggest we’ve only seen the tip of the iceberg. Bottom line: we’re inching closer each day to learning that every athlete uses. Don’t laugh. Look at the new baseball accusations in the last week alone.

If we’ve been played for fools all these years – if steroids are as common as water bottles for athletes – what does that mean? If an entire sport is polluted, it doesn’t make much sense to condemn and punish. Instead, we should use the evidence to learn more about the truth.

Firstly, if this many athletes are using, I wonder if there’s an alternate reality behind the use. Maybe more and more modern athletes use drugs because they feel they need to just to reach the highest level of competition; if everyone in a given pro sport uses, how can a non-user crack a roster? There could be a trickle-down effect, forcing entry-level athletes to use so they can keep up. Or maybe all athletes use because pro sports are that hard on the body and it’s the only way to avoid breaking down. Look at pitchers Mark Prior and Rich Harden. They were perpetually nicked up before the crack down but always bounced back quickly. In the new era, their bodies simply won’t let them play. They’re almost out of the game. So maybe drugs were the only way to keep their bodies fit for competition.

Secondly, why do we all assume steroid use is new in sports? If it’s this ubiquitous today, it just as easily could’ve existed in the past, albeit in less effective forms. Think about it. The development of anabolic steroids traces all the way back to pre-World War II Germany, when its athletes were rumoured to have experimented in the Olympics. Ben Johnson was booked 19 years ago. Do you really think he was the first? The Guinea pig? Hell no. He used a substance that was proven, that was tested on other human beings, most likely athletes. So if we lambaste modern athletes, we shouldn’t ignore previous generations. Assuming there’s a “Golden Age” is naïve. And as long as free agency has existed – as long as players could be financially rewarded for individually outperforming their peers – the motivation to cheat has existed.

It’s strange, however, that so much finger pointing happens when most of the accusations are simply accusations and nothing more. Yes, Jason Giambi wowed us with his Johnny Honesty campaign and a crappy minor leaguer gets busted once in a while, but most of the recent accusations bring with them no evidence of current use. Glaus allegedly used steroids in 2003 in 2004; still, they were banned back then, so it’s tough to shed a tear for him. A guy like Ankiel, however, received the Human Growth Hormone several years ago, when it wasn’t banned. Maybe he and other athletes are always a step ahead, finding new ways to mask drug use, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s no proof of him using today.

What will the future bring for, say, Red Bull? It increases energy and heart rate and it’s considered dangerous enough that bars aren’t supposed to mix it with booze. What if it’s outlawed in pro sports by 2012? Will we tear Sidney Crosby to shreds if we find out he slammed a Red Bull before every game from 2005-2010 and won the 2009 fastest skater contest after chugging two cans? The Red Bull example may sound ridiculous, but it shouldn’t. If it affects your energy levels, it can influence athletic performance.

Maybe it’s time we redefined what a performance enhancer is. Drugs have been stigmatized by the media, but with good reason; they have many visibly adverse affects on our bodies and minds. Heroin users ruin their lives and dozens of pro wrestlers who were linked with steroid use died young. But just because drugs are “evil” doesn’t mean we should ignore all other performance enhancers.

What about Synergy hockey sticks, which are designed to give extra flex and torque on players’ shots? Performance enhancers. Improvements to sneaker technology? Performance enhancers. Great Big Bertha Hawkeye drivers? Performance enhancers. Gatorade? Pure oxygen feeds? Even protein shakes? Performance enhancers. All are designed to improve an athlete’s ability to excel.

Why is using one performance enhancer – testosterone, for example – worse than using another – say, having Callaway analyze your golf swing and build a massive driver that will add 19 yards to your tee shots? Substances can destroy you, but athletes know those consequences and may face them (i.e. the Grim Reaper) should they choose to abuse drugs. I suppose the line is drawn when drug use affects others; the “roid rage” affect can make users hurt loved ones. Also, whether they want to be or not, athletes are role models. Youths will look up to them and imitate their behaviour no matter what. Still, regardless of how horrible drug use may be, we shouldn’t dismiss other performance enhancers.

Steroid crusaders, continue your assault if you must, but you’re hypocrites if you ignore all performance enhancers. Litter every record book with asterisks, Gretzky’s 92 goals? Fuck that. He did it with better skates and stick blades than Phil Esposito. Toss Peyton Manning’s 49 touchdowns out the window, too.

I’m not saying I want to take down every athlete and sport. But in theory, the principles of today’s steroid crusade can apply to all performance enhancers and destroy all pro sports.

Is the notion that we’ve been fooled, that we’ve watched a bunch of cheaters all these years, a sad one? Yes. But if you realize that sports may have always been this way, and that we were happy in the dark for decades, maybe we can wipe our brains clean and return to happiness. Some people may find that notion depressing, but I don’t. I’d love to watch A-Rod launch his 800th homer one day and enjoy it for what it is. Well, maybe not A-Rod, but you get the point.

There are much more serious things to worry about in the world than sports. Sports should be our escape. And in sports, ignorance is bliss, baby.

-- M. L.

Kill the goat but hold your horses

RICCIARDI'S NUMBER MAY BE UP, BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN TORONTO SHOULD BLOW UP ITS TEAM

Bye bye, J.P. Ricciardi.

Well, there’s no guarantee, but he could very well be gone from Toronto when the 2007 season ends. The five-game winning streak is nice, but the Blue Jays sit at 51-50, 10 games out of first place in the AL East and eight games out of the Wild Card. Not good enough. Given the big money and expectations Ted Rogers dumped into the team the last few years, Ricciardi’s beak may not survive the winter.

Ricciardi joined the team in 2002; since then, the Jays have gone 449-461. If you don’t fire your general manager after five and a half years of futility, regardless of his contract status, you’re criminally insane or your name is Charles Wang.

A GM on his way out of town means the team is in the dumps, right? And a team in the dumps should be a seller at the trade deadline, right?

Wrong.

Rumours are already swirling around the Jays as July 31 approaches. Will they trade Troy Glaus, or even Frank Thomas? Plenty of armchair GMs want it to happen. The Jays suck balls, they say, so it’s time to hit the reset button.

Looking at Toronto’s record alone, I understand why some people think this team is a failure, that it should ship off its veteran talent to build for the future while it still can.

But baseball fans should look closer. History suggests the Jays have most of the pieces in place to contend and adding more youth would only set them back several years.

The general rule of thumb in major pro sports suggests teams stuck in neutral should trade their overpriced, wrinkly vets for young pups and use the draft if they want to build a champion. Some cases confirm that idea. The NHL’s Jim Rutherford did it in Carolina, dealing veterans to acquire guys like Justin Williams and drafting Eric Staal.

That plan works in some sports. It doesn’t work in baseball. Not only do Major League Baseball drafts mean relatively little – Vladdy Guerrero and Johan Santana were never drafted – players take years to develop. Ryan Howard was a restless 26 when he won a starting job in Philly.

Go ahead and lynch John Ferguson Jr. for not rebuilding the Leafs through the draft; hockey, especially the new NHL, rewards youth and speed more and more each year. But baseball is different. Every winning team in any sport needs the odd cagey vet, but championship baseball teams need boatloads of cash and veterans to accompany their young guns. Even if that’s part of baseball’s flawed big-money system, it’s the truth. Yeah, the ’03 Marlins had home-grown gems like Josh Beckett, Dontrelle Willis, Miguel Cabrera and Derek Lee, but they also rounded out the roster with vets like Pudge Rodriguez, Mike Lowell, Juan Pierre and Ugie “The Machete” Urbina.

What’s that? Billy Beane built the Moneyball juggernaut in Oakland with astute drafting and ridiculous home grown talent? Hey, Zito was awesome in 2002, and the Giambi/Tejada/Chavez infield was badass. The Montreal Expos turned heads with Vladdy, Jose Vidro and Javier Vazquez in the early 2000s. But those teams won 0.0 World Series because they had no veteran support. Deadline deals (see: Jermaine Dye to Oakland, Bartolo Colon to Montreal) don’t count, either; championship teams acquire their primary veteran talent in the offseason, giving the roster time to gel.

The Toronto Blue Jays actually have many ingredients of a championship team. Home-grown stars entering their prime: Doc Halladay, Vernon Wells, Alex Rios. Big-money veterans: Troy Glaus, A.J. Burnett, B.J. Ryan, Lyle Overbay, Frank Thomas. Nifty role players with gimmicky facial hair: Reed Johnson, Greg Zaun, Matt Stairs. Youngsters ready to contribute: Dustin McGowan, Aaron Hill, Adam Lind, Shaun Marcum, Jeremy Accardo, Josh Tow – just kidding.

Not a bad roster at all, especially considering the horrible, horrible luck the Jays have had with injuries. Sure, Ryan and Burnett’s contracts look scarier by the day. But let’s not cry apocalypse.

This team has loads of talent, most of which is locked up long term. Of the veterans listed above, only Johnson is set to hit unrestricted free agency this winter. Rios’ contract expires, as do a few of the youngsters’ deals, but T.O. won’t have a problem retaining those players.

The talent is there, and Rogers’ wallet could even let the Jays sign someone else this offseason. Also intriguing: the freakish, unexpected development of half a dozen young Jay arms this season. Burnett’s injury and Lilly’s douchebaggery may have been blessings in disguise. Toronto could deal, say, Casey Janssen and Josh Towers for a proven veteran starter or reliever and still have youth left over in the rotation. Seriously, Philly’s assistant GM came to watch Towers pitch last week. Though he easily could’ve been filming a YouTube video – “Stupid crappy pitcher somehow gives up no runs – LOL! Five star rating!”

No, a .500 team shouldn’t buy at the trade deadline, but given their roster, the Jays shouldn’t sell. They should stand pat and reload in the offseason or, at the very least, get something back that helps them next year if they do sell.

Am I contradicting myself? Fire Ricciardi, but don’t change the team too much? Ricciardi must go regardless; any team not producing over six seasons needs a scapegoat, plus Ricciardi’s Pinocchio act with players’ injury statuses was a nightmare. The Jays need a new GM to give them a fresh, friendlier face and make minor roster adjustments.

The Jays ain’t vacating the AL East anytime soon, and the AL East runs, like it or not, on big money, veterans and power. Until the contracts expire or the vets croak, the Birds should keep considering themselves contenders. They’re screwed for ’07, but I’m hopping on the Hillary, er, Blue Jays bandwagon again for ’08.

-- M.L.

Sports fans who focus solely on statistics are 100 per cent assholes

A few weeks ago, I was watching Oregon State and Cal-State Fullerton square off in the College World Series on ESPN. In around the seventh inning, Cal-State Fullerton, trailing 3-1 at the time, finally got something going, putting two men on base.

I was thoroughly enjoying the game; I haven’t watched much college ball in the past, but the action was close and exciting. My enthusiasm, however, was interrupted by a graphic popping up in the top corner of the screen, as casually as the radar gun clocking a pitcher’s fastball. The graphic destroyed any chance of me focusing on or enjoying the rest of the game.

“Win probability.”

This fun little stat, created by some “genius” using a formula based on 1,000 previously played games (or something; it’s difficult to hear the announcers explaining things when you’re trying to suffocate yourself with a pillow), calculates a team’s chance of winning the game based on various factors, including the inning, score, outs and baserunners. Apparently, a couple of baserunners in the seventh inning meant Oregon State’s chances of winning had dipped to 79 per cent.

I only have one question: are we finally willing to admit that our obsession with sports statistics has gotten out of hand? Win probability? Seriously? For starters, the system doesn’t even account for individual players. It doesn’t care if David Eckstein or David Ortiz is batting. Shouldn’t that matter to everybody but Tony LaRussa? Isn’t that what makes sports fun, the human element?

Even if the system does take individual players into account, I don’t want to know. You know why it was kind of cool and disorienting to see A-Rod hit a couple walk off dingers earlier this season? Because nobody expected it. It was a surprise, a shock, and it was fun (well… it would have been if it wasn’t A-Rod).

Think about when Joe Carter hit The Homer. How cheesy would it have been if, just before he took that historic swing, a little graphic popped next to his head and said “Toronto win probability: 53 per cent”? Would you have turned off the Boise State-Oklahoma game if, before Boise’s magical hook and ladder play, the announcers informed you its chances of winning were just 12 per cent? Would you even want to know?

Statistics have always been an integral part of sports and sports debate, but the culture is becoming obsessed with it. We want something quantifiable, something tangible. It’s not good enough to watch and appreciate greatness before our eyes; we demand to measure greatness with a metre stick, not our minds.

Fantasy sports are largely to blame. Each year the industry grows larger, attracting long-time sports fans or enticing first-timers to start following. But fantasy sports are entirely based on statistical analysis and they’re having a ripple effect on the rest of the sporting landscape, to the point that statistics supersede the game.

Think about how many hardcore fantasy nerds have memorized the entire Baseball Prospectus to the page number. Those goobers can rhyme off any vital or irrelevant statistic like it’s their home address. Most frustratingly, some of these fans have never even seen half of the guys they rave about. They tell you that you don’t understand how underrated Chone Figgins is because of his multi-roster flexibility and post-All-Star break batting average. What they don’t understand is it’s pronounced “Shawn” Figgins because they’ve never watched him play in a game. Where is the fun in idolizing or admonishing a player if you’ve never even seen him in action? Can you even consider these people sports fans, or are they merely statistics fans?

Last year, I had the pleasure of attending Bills-Chargers at Ralph Wilson Stadium. LaDainian Tomlinson rushed for 178 yards and two touchdowns. And you know what? I just had to look the numbers up. I didn’t come away from the game gushing over LT’s yards-per-carry average or that I’d witnessed part of his touchdowns-in-consecutive-games record. All I could think about was LT’s astonishing ability to glide about the field, setting up defenders and changing gears so effortlessly you’d think he was playing touch in the backyard. It was something I’d never been able to appreciate before, not even on television. And it’s something the stat heads can’t quantify (“Nuh uh,” says the jerk in the back. “I could have told you that; LT has ‘99’ acceleration on Madden!”).

Tomlinson has had lots of big games before, many of which surpass the numbers he put up against the Bills that day. But I had a new appreciation for the running back, something a box score never could have shown me. Reading Tomlinson’s statline never would have given me a charge. Remembering him sashaying through the Bills defence like it was stuck in quicksand does.

I don’t hate statistics. I really don’t. They can add a lot of fun to a sports argument or make a case for why your favourite player should be in the Hall of Fame. But they can’t measure the best things about sports. They can’t measure Tom Brady lifting everyone around him with two minutes left in a game. They can’t measure Ryan Smyth digging deep late in the third period and beating somebody to the corner for the puck. They can’t measure the emotional roller coaster of Derek Fisher sitting by his sick daughter’s side before helping the Jazz win a playoff game. They can’t measure the probability that Ron Artest will snap and head for Aisle 12 at any moment. And although I can’t stand the douchebag, they can’t measure the amount of time the King of Stats himself, Peyton Manning, puts into studying to give himself even a fraction of an edge.

So I’m begging all you stat geeks: put down the fantasy football magazine. Forget about Ichiro’s OPS. And tell the proponents of “win probability” to go to hell. Your cold, sterile stats can suck the life out of sports. Instead, for once, just watch the game. I promise you’ll enjoy it; I’m right 86.9 per cent of the time on Thursdays in July in odd-numbered years.

-- I.V.

The kids aren't all right

DESPITE EXCEPTIONS LIKE TIGER WOODS AND SIDNEY CROSBY, MOST CHILD PHENOMS WET THEIR DIAPERS OVER THE MASSIVE PRESSURE PLACED UPON THEM. IT'S TIME PARENTS HANDLED THEIR CHILDREN MORE RESPONSIBLY.

One Sunday afternoon in 1995, as we watched a sweaty, hung over John Daly win the British Open, my dad told me the legend of a child prodigy.

“I remember this little kid named Tiger Woods,” he said. “He was on that old show That’s Amazing! The kid was scoring in the 90s at age two! I wonder what happened to him.”

As we learned in the years following, a hell of a lot happened to him. By the time he reached his early twenties, many already considered him the greatest golfer who ever lived and he’s arguably Earth’s most iconic athlete since Muhammad Ali.

How can you not be captivated by Tiger’s entire existence? A child dominating a sport from the day he could walk is ridiculous. Not as ridiculous as a goat penning a novel or Josh Towers throwing eight shutout innings, but not far off.

His story is inspiring but, as we’re learning with each new Michelle Wie or Freddy Adu, it’s equally dangerous.

With massive media frenzies surrounding child prodigies like Woods, athletes’ parents are seeing dollar signs and turning their kids’ lifestyles upside down to create their own phenoms. It’s time they woke up and realized they’re hurting their offspring, not helping them, more often than not.

Usually, a child prodigy’s ascension follows a pattern. First he ruins his local competition. Picture a seventh-grade basketball tournament with one lanky 6’5” kid dunking over 5’4” kids who haven’t hit puberty; as awesome as it is unfair. Then he creates local media buzz and his name starts spreading around the country like a myth. Sports media juggernauts like Sports Illustrated hear about the kid and start masturbating to him in print, billing him as “the next (insert legendary superstar athlete’s name here).”

From that point on, the athlete’s childhood virtually disappears. The Adus, Wies and Sidney Crosbys become media darlings. School becomes homeschool or a travelling tutor; action figures take a backseat to six-figure endorsement deals; proms and parties give way to autograph sessions and tournaments with teammates and opponents several years their senior.

Then pressure begins building. We all know it – that shaky feeling John Travolta gets every time a new movie starring him comes out. “Will Be Cool bring me back? Or will it be the nail in the coffin for my sometimes decent, often pathetic career?”

It’s a stressful and sometimes upsetting feeling, right? Well, do you remember how much worse it was when you were a kid? Morgan Pressel took flak for crying after Birdie Kim chipped in to steal the 2005 U.S. Women’s Open from her. Did she crumble and cry because she lacked toughness? Possibly. Or maybe she was a CHILD PLAYING IN A MAJOR PROFESSIONAL WOMEN’S CHAMPIONSHIP, for Christ’s sake.

For every Tiger or Crosby who overcomes massive pressure and succeeds at a young age, a dozen child phenoms crack. Michelle Wie looks more frazzled every week and hasn’t won a tournament yet. Freddy Adu appears afraid to test his skills across the Atlantic. Justin Rose spent a decade in limbo after a strong ’98 British Open before finally developing into a solid golfer. It’s unfair to call them busts; how can we expect them to succeed when they’re still kids – when they haven’t even discovered who they are and how they perceive the world yet?

When I see a Michelle Wie flounder at a men’s event, I wonder whom a quest like hers is really for. I doubt she woke up one day and said, “I need to make a million dollars today. I need it now. It can’t wait five or six years. I need to be a 13-year-old millionaire.”

Most likely, the culprits are the parents who want to turn their kids into walking ATMs. The media don’t help, either; their overhype of youths inspires other parents to push their kids and constant coverage or replays of serious injuries scares mommy and daddy into milking money out of them before any health ailments arise.

As a result, these poor kids, who could become just as dominant if not more dominant athletes if they had time to grow up first, lose their childhoods. No one knows that better than old pals Michael Jackson and Macaulay Culkin. Jacko lived an adult’s life as a child, working like a dog under an abusive father. It’s no wonder he wants to ride roller coasters and play Seven Minutes in Heaven with 12-year-old boys; he never had a childhood. Culkin’s life was also torn apart as his parents fought over their little blonde commodity.

The child prodigy is a relatively new phenomenon in sports; we haven’t truly seen what the long-term psychological consequences of losing one’s childhood are. So shouldn’t we view Michael and Macaulay’s stories as warning signs?

Mr. and Mrs. Wie, your daughter is a true specimen. But guess what? She’ll still be a specimen in 10 years. You could’ve waited. Maybe if you did, she’d be winning tournaments instead of faking an injury to avoid being barred from LPGA events because of poor scores. Instead, you’ve forced your daughter into an adult’s life. She’ll never get to make out with that scrawny emo kid at a bush party and puke her guts out the next morning after downing too many Jell-O shooters. Shame on you.

Even if Wie’s parents, or those of any other super athlete, don’t actively pressure their kids into competing at the highest possible levels, they’re just as bad if they don’t know when to stop them from growing up too early.

The child pressure syndrome is worse for some sports than others, depending on how much physical maturity is needed to compete at the top level. Football parents, for example, at least don’t have to worry about seeing their 12-year-old absorb a Sean Taylor killshot. But sports relating more to technique than physical strength, especially golf, are tempting money traps. The latest victim is 12-year-old Alexis Thompson, who competed in the U.S. Women’s Open two weekends ago. She missed the cut. Michelle Wie, by the way, withdrew with a wrist injury after firing a first-round 82.

My dad and I had another conversation that 1995 weekend.

Me: Dad, what should I be – a pro hockey player or pro baseball player?

Dad: Well, Mattie, it’s tough to say, I don’t know if you’re –

Me: All I want to know is which one. Just tell me which one!

Dad: Well, I don’t, uh, know if you can…make it, you know? It’s very hard to be a pro…

Thanks for looking out for me, Dad. You crushed my dreams because you love me. And I got to have a real childhood.

-- M.L.

The only difference between you and Barry Bonds is national media coverage and about 750 homeruns

The next few weeks will be rather unpleasant. Barry Bonds is nearing baseball history and soon every newspaper, blog, magazine, radio station, television show -- even that goth kid who listens to My Chemical Romance and complains that sports are "a mindless distraction from the miserable realities of life" – will be offering opinions on Bonds and his quest to knock Henry Aaron from atop the record book.

Most of it will be pretty standard, the same boring, recycled Barry Bonds crap we’ve been subjected to for years.

Bonds is a cheater. He should be made an example of. His record should have an asterisk. He should be paraded through the streets so we can throw rotten fruit at him.

The noise will come loudest from old, white-haired sports writers pining for the days when they could slug post-game beers with players, and when horse racing was the bee’s knees. We can look forward to preachy messages about purity and integrity of the game and columns by Rick Reilly about retarded children playing stickball in the streets. And it’ll be a massive orgy of hypocrisy that makes me sick.

People have always cheated in sports. It’s nothing new and Bonds wasn’t the first. He most certainly won’t be the last. Stealing signs, throwing games, corking bats, taking beanies, scuffing balls, betting on your own sport, signing a midget to draw walks (seriously) -- it’s all been done in baseball. You could write enough books about cheating in baseball to fill a library. And it’s not limited to sports. Peter Gibbons explained it best in Office Space:

"Illegal? Samir, this is America."

America, baby -- bigger, better, whatever it takes to win. It doesn’t matter how you make it to the top so long as you do.

But people want to wear their white hats and take the moral high ground. We want to pretend we aren’t guilty of doing the same things every day, that we don’t cut corners or search for shortcuts to greatness or fulfillment. Of course, we aren’t on national television and making millions of dollars -- or clawing our way to that final roster spot -- so it’s easy to claim "It’s different" when Bonds or other athletes get caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Bonds’ biggest problem is that we don’t need a complicated drug-testing program to prove he’s an asshole. At this point, people simply hate Bonds. And it’s not an Alex Rodriguez, I’d-like-to-slap-him-in-the-face-type of hate; it’s a senior high school jock, I-wish-someone-would-kick-his-ass-and-teach-him-a-lesson-kind of hate.

But when you subtract the fact that Bonds is a total dick, how much different is he from his slugging predecessors, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, or any other major leaguer of the past 15 years who’s given us reason to doubt they’ve earned their success honestly? We didn’t hear much complaining or questioning when those two were in the midst of their homerun tears a few years back. Not Big Mac and Slammin’ Sammy, two likeable superstars, the guys who were "saving baseball."

True, the steroid problem hadn’t yet breached the national consciousness. But those guys never got their due, they never suffered near the admonishment Bonds has been subjected to. And they never would have, either. Nobody talks about them now, nobody mentions that they too appear just as guilty as Bonds. Sosa just became only the fifth player with 600 career homeruns. Where is the backlash? Where is the booing as he travels from park to park? The specials on Sportscentre? It wasn’t the all-time record, but 600 dingers is one of the greatest benchmarks in sports. Rafael Palmeiro got it bad for a while, sure, but how long did that last?

Hell, Jason Giambi was recently painted as a borderline sympathetic figure by some pundits after openly discussing steroids with the media and being threatened by Bud Selig. People cited Giambi’s attempt at honesty, arguing he deserved some credit for that. It’s a good point, though I wonder what the reaction would have been had Bonds done the same thing. Something tells me they would have kept gnawing away at the big slugger, the perfect heel.

What’s most frustrating, of course, is that Bonds didn’t need the juice. He was a first-ballot Hall of Famer before he ever shoved a needle in his ass, or rubbed flax seed oil all over his legs, or whatever the hell it is he does. Most people point to 2000 as the year Bonds’ steroid journey began, his 15th Major League season. Calling his numbers, to that point, impressive, is a gross understatement.

Three Most Valuable Player awards, 445 homers, 460 stolen bases, eight Gold Gloves and one ticket to Cooperstown, all ready to go. He could have put away his bat right then and there and still been regarded as one of the greats. Maybe that’s partly why we’re mad, because we see this immensely talented athlete who cheated when he didn’t need to.

He did it anyway. Why? Maybe he felt his game was slipping and he needed an edge (and got a bigger one than he’d ever anticipated). Maybe he wanted the money associated with mashers. Maybe he got caught up in the Sosa/McGwire mania and wanted a taste for himself. Maybe Bonds himself isn’t quite sure to this day.

But he was faced with a situation that every baseball player, every athlete, every person faces daily. How can I get better, gain everything I want, be the best? We all make different choices and you have to wonder what many people would have done in a similar situation as Bonds’; it’s probably not as cut and dried as most would like to believe.

What would some of Bonds’ harshest critics have done? What if they could make a deal with the devil and underhandedly improve on their craft and leave competition in their wake, if they could make the leap from bestselling authors to Pulitzer Prize winners? Would they turn it down without batting an eye? Would they remember making that deal would set a bad example for little Timmy and Tammy and do what’s "right" instead?

So how do we treat Bonds, the poster child for an era defined by substance abuse? Do we put an asterisk next to his name? Do we take away his single-season home run record? Ok, fine, but Mac and Sammy are next in line, and we all know, like Bonds, they’re probably guilty of some wrongdoing, so we’ll strike them too. Our new single season homerun king is Roger Maris. Then again, he played more games than Ruth, so let’s cross his name out…

At the end of the day, yeah, Bonds cheated, but sports often represent a microcosm of life and this serves as an excellent example. For some reason, in Bonds’ case, we’re particularly interested and, most intriguingly, surprised and abhorred. Maybe we’re exposed to it more today; maybe it irritates us because it fills the 24-hour news cycle. Or maybe we’re just kidding ourselves.

But what Bonds is doing isn’t anything new. Just like the bullshit hypocrisy you’ll hear associated with it in the coming weeks.

-- I.V.

I like it rough

SKYROCKETING SCORES, TOUGH CONDITIONS ARE WHAT DEFINE A MAJOR

Last weekend, SOJP’s Matt Larkin hit Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, home of steel, delightfully mediocre chicks, the amazing PNC Park and the “Pittsburgh salad” – steak, cheese and fries atop a lettuce leaf. Healthy. Oh yeah, he also got tickets to a golf tourney in the area.

I hate Excuse Kid. You know, the one who’s suddenly “injured” if things aren’t going his way at soccer baseball. He rolls an ankle, tweaks a knee or jams a finger and turns on the waterworks.

At 23, I thought I’d escaped Excuse Kid forever. I thought I’d never see him again until I fertilized an egg with my sperm.

At the 107^th U.S. Open, however, I ran into Excuse Kid. He’d hit puberty, sprouted a sloppy rack and legally changed his name to Phil Mickelson.

It was almost as if the voluptuous Mickelson took one look at Oakmont – the bone-dry, rugged, merciless track hosting this year’s Open and known to many as Oakmonster – and packed it in. He showed up for the tourney wearing a fruity wrist brace and complained non-stop about the “dangerous” conditions en route to missing the cut.

Phil, I’m sorry you still have a chicken bone from last year’s championship lodged in your throat. But “The U.S. Open’s rough is too tough” doesn’t fly as an excuse. That’s like whining to McDonald’s because your McFlurry is too cold.

The U.S. Open, perhaps more than any other golf tournament, is famous for its rough and generally vicious conditions.

I had the pleasure of walking Oakmont Saturday and Sunday and it didn’t disappoint. The greens were like marble. Balls wouldn’t stay on the fairway even if you placed them there by hand. The rough looked like regular rough, but when you put a hand, foot or club in it you realized it was thicker and more stubborn than your girlfriend’s dad the day he met you.

Most amazing was Oakmont’s ability to turn the world’s best golfers into mortals. It was astounding seeing the likes of Jim Furyk hit shots I’ve hit thousands of times, like that chunker from the greenside rough that only reaches the fringe and results in a restrained “Fuck!”

I was in heaven; I love that the majors punish mistakes, force competitors to think and make par a desirable score.

Tits Mickelson obviously disagrees. He thinks the majors have taken course difficulty too far and he’s definitely not alone. Other golfers and plenty of spectators are fed up.

“I didn’t come here to see guys hit shots I can hit at home every day,” my uncle told me.

Looking at the trainwreck that was the Sunday leader board, I wondered if the detractors were right. Ten over par, a top-10 score? But then I remembered I was at the friggin’ U.S. Open, one of only four tournaments offering a completely unique experience.

I sat at the eighth hole Sunday for five hours and saw one birdie, courtesy of champion Angel Cabrera. One. You know what I thought to myself? “Awesome.”

Many people feel differently. They want birdies, eagles, aces, approaches hitting the stick, hole-outs from the bunker, and all the other razzle dazzle that lends well to the PGA’s “These Guys are Good” ad campaign. I understand their sentiment to an extent. These are the best golfers in the world and we pay top dollar to see them (well, to listen to them while staring at the back of people’s heads. Let’s face it, golf is a bad spectator sport), so they should give us a show, right?

But you can see that show weekly at any regular PGA event. You can also see plenty of long putts and low scores on the Nationwide tour or at seniors' events, which are glorified dart-throwing contests. There are thousands of amazing ball strikers in the world who can make you cream yourself with ridiculously low scores. Hell, just play a round with the pro at your local course.

United States Open participants put on a show too. It’s not as sexy, but it’s just as impressive. It’s a treat to watch a world-class golfer looking genuinely dumbfounded while eyeballing an approach shot that simply won’t let him attack the pin; to watch him blast a shot from an evil rough that prevents him from spinning the ball; and to watch him read a double-breaking putt knowing an inch too far one way could send his ball 40 feet off the green.

The aforementioned conditions are what make a major a major. The big four tourneys aren’t prestigious because they’re played on pretty courses; they’re prestigious because you have to play so damn well to win them.

Angel Cabrera truly earned his victory. He braved brutal course conditions, stayed super aggressive and hit clutch approach shots, all while chain smoking and shamelessly plugging Ping.

Here was a true U.S. Open champ, grinding out one of two red figures on Sunday. Much more exciting, if you ask me, than seeing Hale Irwin putt his way to -29 at the Depends Invitational.

It doesn’t matter if Oakmont was overkill this year. Every golfer played the same course and had the same opportunity to win.

Complain about the Open if you must. But be sure to call the Tour de France too and demand flatter terrain for the poor bikers.

-- M.L.

Dany Heatley has no future in NASCAR, McGowan’s pork chop sideburns the future in Toronto and other random thoughts

- Amazingly, in roughly the last year, Canadians have been chosen as the most valuable player in the NBA, NHL and American League. Rarely do we see Canadians dominate major North American sports unless it’s hockey, making me curious how many great athletes we “lose” to the ice. In the past, few Canadians have aspired to achieve athletic supremacy in other sports (something guys like Steve Nash might change) and they probably didn’t believe it was very possible anyway -- even superstars like Nash and Justin Morneau still regularly blab on about hockey.

It got me wondering: could many hockey players have cut it in other pro leagues? Off the top of your head you’d have to say Of course, but like my buddy Arby pointed out, it’s difficult to imagine whispy, 41-year-old Dom Hasek, one of the greatest goalies in NHL history, getting buzzed by 95-MPH fastballs. And can you picture Joe Sakic running post patterns for the Eagles while Roy Williams lurked in the secondary? How about Jagr trying to post up Lebron James? Though his lack of teeth might help him smoothly transition into the culture, Dany Heatley would be a nightmare on the NASCAR circuit.

For some reason, hockey players don’t seem to get the same credit for possessing great athleticism like players in the other major North American sports (okay, baseball is probably a poor example). Could many of the NHL’s top guys have cut it, or more importantly excelled, in other professional sports leagues?

- I love Dustin McGowan’s new pork chop sideburns, though it’s a little disconcerting that besides McGowan himself, his burns are the best call up Toronto’s depleted minor league system has mustered this season (McGowan’s facial hair, by the way, still makes him look like an overachieving Grade 9 student compared to Brian “Wolverine” Tallet -- though considering Tallet isn’t exactly the most feared reliever around the majors, “Wolverine” might be a bit extreme in terms of nicknames. My buddy Dave and I actually dubbed him “The Pizza Man” after a weekend series against Philly last year. The Rog has a promo where if the Jays collectively notch 10 strikeouts, everyone gets a free slice of pie. Two out of three games that weekend Tallet emerged from the bullpen to whiff a couple of batters and push the Jays to 10 Ks. Amazing, isn’t it? The guy could wager his firstborn child and Tallet wouldn’t be able to hold a four-run lead in the seventh but, when there’s a goofy, free pizza promotion on the line, The Pizza Man delivers). Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing, though; McGowan has looked like a new man recently and logic -- yes, logic -- dictates that his burns have either settled him down or given him newfound confidence. He may be unstoppable is we come up with cool nickname.

More importantly, though, McGowan’s burns help round out what’s beginning to shape up as a formidable roster of funny facial hair -- it seems J.P. Ricciardi has a plan after all (this week’s J.P. Ricciardi Fun Fact, courtesy of The Sun’s Steve Simmons: In 2005, J.P. sent Chad Gaudin to Oakland for Dustin Majewski. This season, Gaudin is 6-1 with a 2.43 ERA. The 25-year-old Majewski is hitting .232 in double-A). McGowan, Tallet, Sal Fasano and Reed Johnson’s facial hair must rank them with any quartet in baseball. The Jays are like the Mets, except instead of everyone shaving their heads they grow ridiculous beards (and lose).

- While we’re discussing fashion, does anyone have a good reason as to why the Jays haven’t switched back to their baby blue uniforms yet? Retro is huge right now and look how well the Chargers’ old outfits were received. Obviously, they could be updated (though I’d leave them essentially the same, I wouldn’t even add buttons) and it’d be a nice change of pace considering it seems like teams only wear black or red these days (seriously, check out the NBA -- including alternates, Atlanta, Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Houston, the Clippers, Miami, New Jersey, Portland and Toronto each have a red jersey. The NBA would start sharing team nicknames if it wasn’t afraid of being sued by the CFL).

- Why didn’t anybody tell me about Tim Lincecum?!? Undoubtedly, baseball aficionados and fantasy nerds have known about the righty for a while, but wow -- I should have been notified sooner. I recently watched the Giants’ young fireballer against the Mets and his stuff is filthier than the alleyway Rob Babcock lives in. He has an incredible 95-98 MPH fastball with some wicked late movement, a very solid breaking ball, and looks like a young Alan Ruck (the guy who played Ferris Bueller’s testosterone-deficient best friend) when he’s in mid-delivery. Enjoy it while it lasts, though. His throwing motion is so violent he looks like he’s trying to behead a 13th century heathen with one arm.

- Very random European football note: Graham Poll, a ref for England’s Football Association, has retired after becoming disillusioned with the FA’s lack of support for its officials. A few years ago -- he says this has nothing to do with his retirement -- Poll was refereeing a second-round World Cup match between Australia and Croatia. He gave Croatian defender Josip Simunic three yellow cards before tossing him from the game. The match ended 2-2 and the Aussies advanced but, had Croatia won, Australia could have protested Poll’s mistake and the game would have been replayed (which apparently has never happened before). The thing is, even though his mistake didn’t actually affect anything, it crushed Poll’s psyche:

“A lot of tears were shed and it will always live with me,” Poll recently said of the mistake. “My last thought before I die will probably be ‘why?’”

How hilariously sad is that? This guy is ready to hang himself over a call that didn’t matter and we can’t get Vince Carter to care about his job more than the guy who pumps shit out of my septic tank. What a world.

Hey "Leafs fans": Fuck you

The Ottawa Senators are skating at the doorstep of hockey supremacy. Across the country, millions are cheering for the club to bring Lord Stanley’s Cup home to Canada for the first time since 1993. Cheering are fans in the west. Cheering are fans in the east. Cheering are the fans in… Leafs nation?

A few weeks ago some buddies and I went out to watch Game 2 of the Buffalo-Ottawa series. Born and raised a Leaf fan, with memories of intense Battle of Ontario playoff clashes still fresh in mind, I was pulling for the Sabres to win the series. Actually, that’s not quite true. I wasn’t hoping Buffalo would win the series. I was hoping Ottawa would choke, fail and be embarrassed worse than the kid in high school who showered after gym in his bathing suit.

Early in the game a friend of mine -- a die-hard, raised with blue blood Maple Leaf fan -- casually explained that he was cheering for the Sens. Excuse me, what? I should have stabbed him in the eye with a fucking fork. After all the blood, sweat and tears the two teams exchanged over the last few years, how could any true Leafs fan possibly root for those nation capital pricks? Shouldn’t we hate them to our very core? It wasn’t just my friend, either; the entire bar, rooted in a city filled with Maple Leaf faithful, was raucously celebrating each Senators goal.

Is there any chance in hell this would have happened three years ago? If Ottawa knocked Toronto out of the playoffs would Buds fans cheer for the Sens “Because they’re the last Canadian team” (which, by the way, perfectly exemplifies Canada’s inferiority complex doesn’t it? Wouldn’t that be the same as Yankee fans getting knocked out and saying they’re going to cheer for the Mets “Because they’re the last New York team”? I’m pretty sure that doesn’t happen)?

Admittedly, it’s not the real fans causing problems, not the ones who live, eat and breath Maple Leafs hockey (I don’t necessarily put myself in his category, by the way. A lot of these guys would pass up free sex to watch an October Leafs-Blues tilt, a sacrifice I am not yet willing to make). The real fans think the no-call of Gretzky’s high stick in 1993 was a conspiracy to avoid a Leafs-Habs Cup final. The real fans still throw up in their mouths a little when they remember how close Gary Roberts came to being a Senator. The real fans think it’s awesome Tie Domi kept banging away after he retired, except he shifted from the ice to Belinda Stonach’s vagina.

It’s the fair-weather fans giving us Leafs nation a bad name. Talk to most non-Leaf fans in Canada and they already loathe us. They claim Leafs fans are overbearing (true), they think we’re ridiculous optimists constantly claiming this is “The Year” (true), they think we live too much in the past (true) and they think we’re assholes (probably true). At least, amid our ignorance and obtrusiveness, Leaf-haters acknowledge we really care about the Leafs, however misguided our passion may be. Why take that away? Do we really need to add bandwagon jumping or selling out our own team for a hated rival to that list?

Half of Canada is cheering for the Sens right now and I’d wager a healthy handful of those people are mostly doing it because they know that for Leafs fans, watching Ottawa bring home the Stanley Cup is like watching your girlfriend bang your worst enemy on national television (well… ex-girlfriend whom we still love, I suppose, since it’s been so long since us and Stanley hooked up). They want to see us suffer. And I respect that. Yeah, I’m bitter and jaded, but considering we reminisce about the Doug Gilmour-era Leafs like they were the ’70s Habs, so should every Toronto fan be at this point. So for the next few weeks, each and every Leaf fan should be unofficially enroling as members of Ducks Nation.

But not everyone is. Some are sleeping with the enemy. Fair enough. If you’re a “Leafs fan” and you’re been cheering for Ottawa “because they’re the last Canadian team,” great. Go cheer for the Senators and stay there. One more good reason to hate those bastards.