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Bio
- Mark Weinstein is a sportswriter, book editor, and performer living in New York City.
In January of 2008 Weinstein founded Bluenatic.com, a New York Giants blog that has been quoted by The New York Times and linked to by some of the most prominent sports blogs on the internet including The Big Lead, Deadspin and NBC Sports' Off the Bench.
During the 2010 football season, Weinstein contributed 36 columns to MSG.com about the Giants and pro football, written from the perspective of a passionate fan. His work has also appeared on Deadspin and in the pages of Athletes Quarterly, for which he serves as a contributing editor.
As an editor for The Lyons Press, McGraw-Hill Trade, Skyhorse Publishing, and Rodale Books, Weinstein has acquired and edited more than 250 books, most of them on the subject of sports. He has had the good fortune to work with such authors and sports figures as Roger Kahn (author of The Boys of Summer), Coach John Wooden, legendary boxing trainer Angelo Dundee, champion marathoner Grete Waitz, golf immortal Gary Player and many others. He presently serves as Executive Editor of Rodale Books.
Weinstein is the co-author (with Elliott Kalb) of The 30 Greatest Sports Conspiracy Theories of All-Time (2009), a book which received a favorable write-up by Newsday scribe Neil Best and which landed Weinstein an appearance on NPR's Here and Now with Robin Young. Weinstein also contributed the epilogue to the first North American paperback edition of Diego Maradona's autobiography, Maradona (2011).
For twelve weeks in the Spring of 2008, Weinstein hosted, along with his wife, Joree, a weekly hour-long sports talk radio show on Neighborhood Public Radio, broadcast in affiliation with the Whitney Biennial.
From 1998 to 2009 Weinstein wrote, recorded and performed with the hip hop-hybrid musical outfit Regenerated Headpiece, releasing three full-length albums and performing more than 100 dates. Regenerated Headpiece's third album, The New Animal, featured two collaborations with the legendary Chuck D of Public Enemy and was praised by Robert Christgau, the dean of American rock critics, in his 2009 Consumer Guide.
Weinstein is a 1997 graduate of the University of Michigan and lives on the Lower East Side of Manhattan with his wife and daughter, Ruby.
He can be reached via email at weinstein@bluenatic.com or at twitter.com/bluenatic.
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Posts
- Oct 28, 11
Chances are, if you've worked in sports media for any significant length of time over the past fifty years, you've got an Al Davis story. I've got one, too. And like many others', mine begins with Al Davis threatening to sue me.
In my case, it was over eight words. Eight words in a 416-page book, about something that had happened more than thirty years before.
It's late spring, 2003. I'm sitting at my desk in the McGraw-Hill offices on the 11th floor of Two Penn Plaza when my phone rings. I pick it up, say "Mark Weinstein."
"Please hold for Al Davis," says a woman whose voice I do not recognize.
Naturally, I think someone's playing a joke on me. It had happened before. But a few seconds later I hear a voice that sounds an awful lot like that of the Oakland Raiders' legendary, litigious owner.
"Mark, this is Al Davis," the voice says. "I want to ask you a question. Why on earth would you ask me to endorse a book full of lies?"
It was no joke. I had recently sent Davis an Advance Reading Copy (ARC) of a book I had edited titled Going Long: The Wild 10-Year Saga of the Renegade American Football League in the Words of Those Who Lived It, which Contemporary Books/McGraw-Hill would be publishing later that summer. Davis, for reasons he never made clear, had refused to be interviewed for the book—an oral history of the AFL—despite repeated requests by the writer, Jeff Miller, then an editor at The Dallas Morning News. And though I knew the book contained some less-than-reverent comments about Davis, and was fully aware of his penchant for lawsuits, I felt that the upside of a potential endorsement from such a pivotal figure in the AFL's colorful history was worth the risk of angering him.
This was, of course, idiotic.
"Mark," he said. "I'd like you to turn to page 204. Can you do that?"
"Yes sir."
"Please read the fourth line from the top of the page."
"Al was not in on the merger discussions."
"Al was not in on the merger discussions," he repeated, stressing every syllable. "Now, why would you print such an outrageous lie?"
"That's a direct quote from Lamar Hunt," I said.
"It's a lie. In fact, it's more than a lie. It's a provocation."
"It's a direct quote, sir."
"It's a lie."
"Well, what would you like me to do?" I said.
"I want you to remove that sentence from the book."
"I'm sorry, sir," I said, "but I can't do that. The book has already gone to press."
"That's not my problem," he said. The conversation, as you might imagine, devolved from there. Threats of a not-so-veiled nature were made. I reminded him of his refusal to be interviewed. He got angry. I got defensive. In the end, I told him I would "see what I could do," and I would. It was not a pleasant call.
After hanging up, I immediately called the writer and asked him to both double-check his tapes and to confirm the story one more time with Lamar Hunt. Then I called another writer I'd recently worked with, Chuck Day, who had collaborated on a book entitled The Making of the Super Bowl with Don Weiss, the former Executive Director of the NFL. Because I knew from his book that Weiss had participated in the merger discussions, I asked Chuck if Don could verify Hunt's claim as well, just to be sure.
Then, of course, I started to panic. I had been on the job at McGraw-Hill less than a year and was still struggling to gain a foothold. I had neglected to have the book vetted by legal (a mistake I would not repeat), and was solely responsible for bringing it to Davis' attention. If he actually followed through and filed suit, it was entirely possible that I might lose my job.
Over eight lousy words.
Part of my fear stemmed from the fact that Davis felt strongly enough about this to call me himself. Most owners, I reasoned, would have had an underling call, or simply asked his attorney to send a threatening letter. That's what the McCaskeys did a year later when we boneheadedly included the Chicago Bears logo on the cover of a biography of their late, great founder/owner, George Halas, without the proper permissions. The biography wasn't so kind to the McCaskeys, specifically Michael McCaskey, Halas' grandson, who had assumed control of the team ("anybody but Michael," Halas had reportedly said on his deathbed, in reference to his successor), so the Bears weren't looking to do us any favors. But the only person I heard from in the Bears organization was an attorney, whose letter I immediately forwarded to McGraw-Hill's in-house counsel.
After informing my immediate superiors of the situation, that's precisely who I called next. The attorney was a no-nonsense type who, after a particularly colorful vetting, once asked me if it was necessary for the word "cocksucker" to appear nine times in one book (I did, and it was). She and I had struck an uneasy coexistence, but we usually managed to keep things professional. And in this particular case, she didn't seem particularly alarmed. As long as my sources checked out, she said, there shouldn't be a problem, though that wouldn't preclude Davis from trying to sue us anyway, or from blasting us in the press.
I didn't hear back from Jeff Miller or Chuck Day until the next day, which only served to heighten my anxiety. But when both writers called to tell me that their sources assured them the story checked out, I relaxed a bit. I knew that it was possible Davis could still file suit, but at least it wouldn't be because the book contained untruths. If he was going to sue, it would be because suing people (or threatening to sue them) was simply what Al Davis did.
The attorney sent a letter to Davis on behalf of the McGraw-Hill Companies and myself. Several weeks passed and I didn't hear a word from anyone in Oakland. The book was released with Hunt's quote in-tact, to rave reviews from Sports Illustrated ("Outlandish, informative, and above all, funny") and several other media outlets. To my surprise, not one review mentioned the fourth line on page 204. Sales were solid if unspectacular, and included a nice run of spiked numbers in the weeks leading into the holidays. We scheduled a paperback for the following summer. I was not fired.
Then, one day, a package arrived. In it, there was a short letter typed on Oakland Raiders letterhead, wrapped with a rubber band around a VHS tape bearing the humble title, Al Davis: #1 For All Time Legend Maverick. The letter, signed by Davis, just said that he would follow up with me in a few days time.
The old man did not disappoint. Later that week, a call came in: "Please hold for Al Davis."
"Did you receive the video tape I sent?" Davis asked.
"Yes, sir I did."
"Good. Listen, I've been advised by my counsel not to pursue any legal action against you or your company," he said. "But I wanted to make sure you knew who it was you were dealing with. I take these things very seriously."
"Of course, sir," I said. "You know, I'd be happy to have you tell your side of the story for the paperback we've got planned, if that's something that interests you."
"Sure, it interests me," he said, "but not for your paperback. No. I had a publisher once, years ago, offered me a million dollars to write a book. But I had to turn him down. Timing wasn't right. Tell me. How much would a book like that be worth to a company like McGraw-Hill?"
"A significant amount, I'm sure. It would be a remarkable book. Newsworthy. But with all due respect, sir, a million dollars seems unlikely."
"This wouldn't be any ordinary book," Davis said.
"I never suggested it would be, sir. But a million dollars...."
"Look. It has to be worth my time."
"Sure, but a million dollars is a lot of money."
"Tell you what. You watch that video tape, you change your mind, you know how to reach me."
That was the last time we ever spoke. My Publisher, a non-sports fan who was, oddly, a speed-skating enthusiast, didn't know Al Davis from Miles Davis. I knew there was no way he'd authorize a six-figure advance, let alone a seven-figure advance, for a book by someone he'd never heard of. I didn't even ask him. I figured I'd dodged a bullet, and it was best to cut my losses.
Don Weiss died that Fall, suffering a heart attack. Lamar Hunt followed three years later, succumbing to prostate cancer. Davis, on the other hand, held on until a few weeks ago. But in the eight years following our brief encounter he never sold his book, never did get a chance to tell his extraordinary story.
Many of the obituaries and columns published in the immediate wake of Davis' death spoke of how he had opposed the NFL/AFL merger (Davis was serving as AFL commissioner at the time) and a few even referenced and quoted from Going Long, but nobody cited the "offending" sentence, those eight words that raised the ire of a legend and nearly cost me my career in book publishing.
Eight years and a couple hundred books later, I'm working with Jeff Miller again. This time, it's a book about two deceased golf legends, Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson. And while I'm not expecting there to be any explosive revelations in it, I don't think I'll be asking their surviving family members for any endorsements.
Rest in peace, sir.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
*Editor's note: The dialogue in this story is accurate to the best of the author's recollection only.
This story was republished by Deadspin on Monday, October 24th.
- Jun 15, 11In an increasingly crazy, unpredictable world in which there are few, if any, absolutes, it's reassuring as a sports fan to know that there are certain things that never change. Players, coaches—hell, even franchises will come and go, but numbers endure. You can rely on numbers, lean on them like pillars on your porch. They represent sturdy, fixed points in what can otherwise be a bewildering, disorienting navigation of the known universe.I like to use uniform numbers as mnemonic devices. Someone tells me to meet them at 4153 Main Street, I process that as Tom Seaver, Harry Carson Main Street. Someone tells me their phone number is 647-2731? To me, that's Jim Burt, Jose Reyes, Rodney Hampton, Mike Piazza. It's just how my mind works.For thirty-three years, Phil Simms has been #11 in the hearts and minds of New York Giants fans like myself. It's the number he was wearing when Topps came to take his photograph for his first football card in 1979. It's the number he wore in the early 1980s, when I dressed in his three-quarter-sleeve blue jersey for five consecutive Halloweens. It's the number he wore when he set the record for completion percentage in Super Bowl XXI, and it's the number he wore when the Giants retired his jersey back in 1995. Now it's the number the Old Man wears every game day in tribute.My buddy Schwartz used to joke that Phil was so good he got to be #1 twice. I never had the heart to tell Schwartz that his logic would've made Phil #2, which is what Bill Parcells made Simms in 1983 when he benched him in favor of Scott Brunner, and what some shortsighted Giants fans in those days thought Phil smelled like.But I digress. Today, friends, I became the custodian of a disc containing 130 amazing photos of various new York Giants throughout the franchise's eighty-five year history. The disc includes rare shots of Steve Owen, Mel Hein, Charley Conerly, Frank Gifford, Emlen Tunnell, and tons more. For a Giants dork like me, it's a treasure chest. A find beyond compare. And if you're lucky (and ask nicely), I'll share some of the images here on this blog and over at Bluenatic Fringe in the coming weeks and months, especially if the lockout drags on into the summer.When, sandwiched between shots of Earnest Gray and George Young, I saw the two shots posted above, I did a double take. Though the photos are of unknown provenance, there is little doubt that they were taken shortly after the Giants selected Phil Simms with the 7th overall pick of the 1979 NFL Draft. They capture a baby-faced Simms posing in front of a backdrop of then-four-year-old Giants Stadium with a football and Ray Perkins, who looks more like a high school math teacher than the newly hired head coach of an NFL team.The double take, of course, was due to the jersey Simms is wearing in the photos, and the number that adorns it. #19? Who the eff is #19? Who is this impostor, this Bizarro Simms? Phil Simms is, was, and always will be #11. ELEVEN. This is porch pillar stuff. Fixed. Bob Sheppard certainly never announced Phil's name with any other number. Why would he?
If Phil Simms isn't #11, as I was sure he was and is, then how can I be sure of anything else in my life?
Chosen with the 7th overall pick, #19 does not represent Simms's draft position. He wore #12 in college at Morehead State. As far as I know, he didn't grow up idolizing John Unitas, as I don't recall Simms ever mentioning Johnny U in any of the three books he's "authored", including the one titled Phil Simms on Passing. So what gives? Perkins and GM George Young both spent time with Unitas in Baltimore, but it's a stretch to think they'd put that kind of pressure on a rookie quarterback from a small college playing under the microscope of the New York media.Going back to the 1960s, the only Giants players I can think of who ever wore #19 are QB Gary Wood, WR Anthony Mix and PK Cary Blanchard, none of whom particularly distinguished themselves while wearing a Giants uniform. No Giant has worn the number in a regular season game since.
In 2011, the number 19 is a significant one for Simms and the Giants. Call it a coincidence if you want, but the Giants hold the 19th pick in this year's draft. Simms, who retired with 19 franchise records, presently ranks 19th all-time among NFL quarterbacks in passing yards. But none of those things explain why he's wearing #19 in those photos.Something tells me this is a job for Paul Lukas. He's the only man I know who can make sense of this madness.
UPDATE 6/15/11: I had a chance to speak briefly with Simms at the 86 Giants reunion last weekend and asked him about the photo. He said that #19 was the number the Giants issued him at first. Then, when the Giants cut the guy who was wearing #11 (Simms said it was QB Jerry Golsteyn) he assumed the number. The problem Simms' story is that neither Golsteyn nor any other Giants player wore #11 in 1978. Golsteyn wore #12, which was the number Simms wore in college. So perhaps that's what Simms was referring to. But it doesn't explain how he ended up wearing #11. - Feb 23, 11It’s a good thing for the New York Jets and their well-mannered, totally realistic fans that they won the Super Bowl two weeks ago in Indianapolis and again last week in New England. If they hadn’t already secured two gleaming world championship trophies this postseason, their loss in Sunday’s minor exhibition in Pittsburgh might have stung quite a bit.It’s a good thing for Rex Ryan and his impervious defense that the media anointed him football royalty and declared him a defensive genius for leading his charges to world championships in consecutive weeks. If he hadn’t, Rashard Mendenhall’s gashing of his vaunted unit for 95 yards and a touchdown in the first half on Sunday while rushing behind a former practice squad center might have caused some reporters to ask the sure Hall of Fame coach a few tough questions in the postgame locker room.It’s a good thing for the heroic Ladainian Tomlinson that his three touchdowns in this postseason prior to Sunday’s game erased whatever silly, lingering doubts there might be about his ability to perform in the clutch. If they hadn’t, and if The Real LT hadn’t had his entire career validated by last week’s stunning Super Bowl win, his nine-carry, 16-yard effort and failure to score on fourth down from the one on Sunday might have cast some doubt on the true Jet legend’s legacy.It’s a good thing for Bart Scott that he reveled in his heel role following last week’s Super Bowl win over the heavily-favored and pundit-picked New England Patriots last week. If he hadn’t, his seven total tackles in the Jets three postseason games and his inability to stop a much smaller Mendenhall from dragging him backwards into his end zone may have made those incendiary remarks seem a bit foolish.It’s a good thing for Braylon Edwards that he did a tasteful, sportsmanlike backflip on the opponent’s home field last week in New England after the Jets won the Super Bowl for the second straight week. If he hadn’t, his three catches on seven targets and false start penalty during Sunday’s meaningless exhibition in Pittsburgh might have been construed as another big-game no-show for the talented yet mercurial wide receiver/model.It’s a good thing for Mark Sanchez that he was lauded so enthusiastically for his poise, leadership, and style as the 24-year-old signal caller matured before our eyes this postseason and emerged a two-time champion. If he hadn’t already been recognized for the true legend of the game he so clearly is—a legend that will surely only grow with all the championships he is virtually assured to win in the coming years—it’s possible that some agenda-driven journos, intimidated by Sanchez’s magnetic beauty, might point out that the fifty yards of total offense he generated in the first half (11 until the final 1:13) against the Steelers, coupled with a fumble which resulted in a defensive touchdown, dug his team a hole that even he, in his infinite awesomeness, couldn’t recover from despite a valiant effort.
It's a good thing for Brian Schottenheimer that he already cemented himself as a surefire head coaching candidate with his maverick play-calling in the Jets' two Super Bowl victories earlier this month. If he hadn't, it's possible that prospective employers might have taken issue with an offense that gained a total of one rushing yard in the first half and failed to score on four consecutive plays inside the Steelers 2-yard line on Sunday.It’s a good thing for the uber-classy Jets fans that they took all those wholly justified shots at the Giants and their own fans these past few weeks before losing their fourth AFC Championship Game in as many tries. If they hadn’t, Giants fans might have felt compelled to defend their team, which is 4-0 in NFC Championship Games and the owner of three Lombardi trophies, mentioning casually how the Jets haven’t beaten the Giants on the football field since 1993 and how when, in 2007, the Giants went on their own magical run, nary a reference to their less fortunate stadium co-tenants was made.It’s a good thing the City of New York celebrated the Jets back-to-back Super Bowl championships by illuminating the Empire State Building a sickly green and throwing the team a costly pep rally on Thursday that required not only the time and attention of New York’s Finest but also its mayor and one of its senators. If it hadn’t, the city might have actually considered turning their attention and discretionary funds towards its failing school system and/or its inept sanitation department.It’s a good thing for the Jets and their fans that they’ll definitely win the Super Bowl next year and in all subsequent years for the foreseeable future. If such amazing future success weren’t preordained for them, it’s possible that the threat of a lockout or a rash of key injuries or free agent defections or the improvement of other contending teams might give them reason to lament not closing the deal when they had the chance.By winning two Super Bowls before the Super Bowl has even been played, the New York Jets did away with the formality of having to actually, you know, finish the job.
Good for them.
What need did they have to finish the job when they were already champions in their own minds?
Oh, but let’s give the Jets credit for hanging in there after a horrible first half and battling back. Let’s give the Jets defense credit for holding the Steelers scoreless after halftime. Yes, by all means, let’s give the Jets credit for losing. For coming close. That makes sense.
If you've been listening to sports radio the past day or two, you'll know that it also apparently makes sense to cop ridiculous pleas, make excuses and offer up meaningless platitudes. It was a great season, you see. What a ride it was. We’ll get ‘em next year.
That’s loser talk.
The objective of every NFL team is to win the Super Bowl. The real one. Anything short of that is a failure, and the Jets know it.
Talk is cheap. Play the game. I think I heard that somewhere before. - Nov 07, 10Giants Stadium may be gone, but I still can’t shake its memory. The more familiar I get with its shiny new replacement, the more I feel its presence. Giants Stadium hosted more NFL games than any stadium ever has, and in attending something in the neighborhood of 200 of them it became my treehouse. For 27 years, it was a place where my old man and I could go to get away from whatever else was happening in our lives and lose ourselves in the frenzied company of 80,000 mostly anonymous friends.I’ve been thinking a lot about Giants Stadium lately, and especially today, because it marks an anniversary of sorts. One year ago today I got my first and last glimpse at the Giants Stadium press box.There was a time in my life when my greatest desire was to sit in that press box, covering the football team I loved. It was a dream that, as a teenager, I dreamed nightly. As the sports editor and, later, editor-in-chief of my high school's newspaper, I mimicked the reporters and columnists that covered the Giants for Newsday and The New York Times, the two papers that were delivered to our Long Island home every day. I studied their ledes, their styles, hoping they'd rub off on me. It was only a matter of time, I figured, until I'd be covering the Giants myself, "Scoop" Weinstein rubbing elbows in the press box with Dave Anderson and Bob Glauber.Before I ever stepped foot on campus at The University of Michigan, I'd already sent all of my clippings to the sports editor at The Michigan Daily, a sharp young fellow who has since gone on to become a columnist of some renown at the Detroit Free Press and Sports Illustrated. When I finally met him in person, he thanked me for my frequent mailings by promptly dispatching me to cover a women's cross country event. Later that year, while I was pledging a fraternity and very nearly failing out of school, he allowed me to report on women's softball. These were hardly the beats I’d envisioned covering in my fantasies, but it hardly mattered. By that point, all I was truly interested in was drinking beer and playing Madden until my thumbs were sore. I was hardly ready to cover Michigan football, basketball or hockey, and it showed. By my sophomore year, I wasn't covering anything at all.My life took a number of twists and turns after that, but eventually I found my way back to sportswriting. Through this blog and my work as a book editor, I even became acquainted with a few guys working the Giants beat. To a man, they all told me not to envy them, stressing that the life of a newspaper beat reporter is a lonely, generally unstable existence. Still, while at the stadium on Sundays I'd often find myself looking over my left shoulder and up at the press box, wishing I was up there with them.Last fall, opportunity knocked when the fledgling United Football League announced, much to my surprise, that it had scheduled a game at Giants Stadium. Though I'd never actually applied for a credential, I knew the Giants would never issue me one, as is their general policy with bloggers. But the UFL? Who was the UFL to deny anyone anything? So I sent a letter to the UFL's director of publicity on some phony letterhead I created in five minutes using MS Paint, requesting a media credential for the epic showdown between the New York Sentinels and the California Redwoods scheduled for the evening of Thursday, October 29th. A week or so later, after a friendly follow-up email, a credential was granted.The game, I'd later learn, would be broadcast on Versus, announced by Dave Sims and Doug Flutie. Former NFL star Simeon Rice was suiting up for New York, as were a few other recognizable names including wide receiver Koren Robinson (the ninth overall pick in the 2001 NFL Draft) and quarterback Quinn Gray, formerly of the Jacksonville Jaguars. John David Washington, son of Denzel, would represent the Redwoods. It was to be a star-studded affair all around.Because I do not own a car and at that time did not possess a valid driver's license (a story for another time), I took a New Jersey Transit train to Secaucus Junction, where I caught a shuttle bus bound for the Meadowlands. Though the bus had a sign bearing the words "Giants Stadium" taped to its windshield, I began to question whether or not I had boarded the right one after only six other passengers climbed on board. When, roughly thirty minutes later, the seven of us arrived at the stadium, the parking lot was essentially empty. Never before had I see it so deserted before a game, and we often arrive at Giants games five hours prior to kickoff. It was, for lack of a better word, eerie.I made my way through the lot and to the press gate, where my credential was waiting for me. It allowed for both press box and locker room access, but not field. I rode the elevator up to the press level which, constructed in 1996, was the newest structure in Giants Stadium. After waving my credential at an indifferent member of stadium security I was welcomed to a better-than-decent catered buffet, which included dessert and as many cans of soda as I could drink. The spread included baked ziti, roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes and salad. The press box dining room, however, much like the bus and parking lot had been, was sparsely populated. I could have gone back for a tenth helping and nobody would have said a word. Heck, I probably could have taken a whole chafing dish over to my table.The local sporting press, I can only assume, was more interested in covering the minor event being held 15 miles east that night at Yankee Stadium—Game 2 of the World Series. AJ Burnett was facing off against the Phillies’ Pedro Martinez. Because the Phillies had taken Game 1 in the Bronx behind a masterful, complete game pitching performance by Cliff Lee the night before, many felt that this was a “must win” game for the Yankees, and I guess “must win” World Series games attract more media attention than Thursday night UFL games do, even when they feature Simeon Rice. I know this because the Yankee game was being shown in the press box, and more reporters were watching the television than the game on the field. Who could blame them? The product on display was, to be kind, of dubious quality.Looking out through the massive glass encasement of the press box, I quickly ascertained that the rest of the tri-state area was glued to their TV sets at home, because nobody was in the stands, either. I mean nobody. At the time, I tweeted that I estimated no more than 500 people were in the building, including the players, coaches, event staff and the assembled media. The league announced attendance of 10,318, which was ludicrous. I had seen more fans gathered in the old gym at Hofstra, where the defunct USBL's Long Island Surf used to play. I’m fairly certain I’ve also seen more people waiting on line for Shake Shack at CitiField, or climbing out of a car at the circus.For what it was worth (and it wasn’t worth much to many), the Redwoods won the game, 20-13. Gray was awful, Rice and Robinson non-factors. I don't even think Washington played. For the Sentinels, it was their third loss in a winless inaugural season that would turn out to be their only season. Shortly after the six-game season ended they packed up, moved to Hartford, and renamed themselves the Colonials.For the Redwoods, it was their second win in what for them would be a two-win season. Both wins came against the Sentinels.For me, the game was immaterial, though. I spent the better part of the first half tinkering with a blog post that had nothing whatsoever to do with the game and everything to do with the death of Giants Stadium. Up in the press box, I took the opportunity to experience the stadium from a perspective I’d never been afforded, and which nobody would ever be afforded again after December. I wanted to see what I’d been missing all those years, and to live, for one fleeting moment, the life I’d once dreamed of. And after doing so, I left the stadium exhilarated.Because I couldn’t risk missing the shuttle back to the city, I did not venture down to the locker room after the game. Instead I packed up my laptop, said goodbye to the kindly reporters I had met and exchanged business cards with, took one last look around, and headed out across the vast expanse of black asphalt towards the bus.As is the custom, there was no cheering in the press box that night, though a few scribes delighted in the results of the baseball game, a 3-1 Yankee victory. Unfortunately for the UFL, there was also no cheering of any kind anywhere in the vicinity of Giants Stadium, either. This begged the question: If a pass falls incomplete, repeatedly, in an empty stadium, does it make a sound?The answer, to the consternation of Versus, is no, but for me it’s had a reverberation. One year to the day later Giants Stadium is gone, the Sentinels are in Hartford, and the Yankees are watching the World Series on television (unless, of course, they’re Cablevision customers). But me, I’m writing this blog, writing two columns a week for MSG.com, covering the team I love, and inching closer to that dream deferred.Watch those elbows, Glauber.
- Oct 16, 10I recently devoured, over the course of a few nights, the nearly 400 pages that make up The Most Memorable Games in Giants History, a new book by Jim Baker and Bernard Corbett. Employing an oral history format, the authors allow the players, coaches, executives, writers and broadcasters who helped make these games memorable to tell the stories in their own words. It's an informative and entertaining look at Giants history that belongs on the bookshelf of any dedicated Giants fan.Corbett, perhaps best-known as the radio play-by-play voice of Harvard University football and Boston University hockey, recently took some time out to answer a few questions about the creation of the book and the manner in which he and his co-author arrived at their selections.Here's the interview below, edited slightly for clarity and length:* * *MW: Let's get the obvious question out of the way first. How does a died-in-the-wool Boston guy like you become a lifelong, die hard New York Giants fan? The book's dedication indicates that it has a lot to do with your father.BC: Once upon a time—in the late fifties when the NFL first became a Sunday afternoon American cultural staple—the Giants (pre AFL) were featured every week throughout New England, the Canadian maritimes, etc. My father and really everyone else that was a pro football fan in a place like Boston at the time was a Giants fan. The team maintained a strong following in New England /Massachusetts/Boston throughout the 1960’s through the AFL’s early days. The Patriots were very slow developing a following of their own. When I first started watching the NFL (circa 1967/Fran Tarkenton) I sat down on Sundays and watched the Giants religiously every week with my father, who stayed loyal to the Big Blue ‘til his passing in 1998. I’m 49 by the way.MW: Two things impressed me most about this book. First and foremost is its breadth. The book covers games spread across 82 seasons and includes interviews with Giants players whose years of service span seven decades. That obviously took a great deal of research and a significant investment of your time. How did you go about gathering the necessary information on the memorable games that took place well before your time? What were the books that you found yourself continually referring to?BC: I personally have a very deep collection of Giants-related books. I’m not saying I’ve got all of ‘em, but it’s close. Richard Whittingham’s very colorful history, which includes many entertaining sidebars and anecdotes about the team, was a primary source. For the 1946 story, Sports Illustrated's The Football Book was invaluable. Also, as has been the case through my entire career, there was no substitute for the microfilm department of the Boston Public Library, where I had access to countless newspaper accounts.MW: The second thing that really impressed me is how you got so many of the old players to talk to you. As someone who has attempted to secure interviews with some of the men featured in this book, I can personally attest to how difficult that can be. That in itself deserves kudos, but they also gave you such great material. Which were the interviews that really stood out for you as the most enjoyable and/or informative? And what was it like, as a fan, to interview some of your heroes?BC: I have to say that reflecting back on some 125 interviews, 75 of which were with former Giants, there wasn’t one that I said, “oh my, what a waste of time.” Every interview had value. I credit that to the players, to the subjects in general and to my dedication to “doing the homework” and being prepared. The players know right away if they’re talking to somebody that has the knowledge, frame of reference, and passion for the subject. I take pride in developing all of the above before I set up the tape recorder.There were so many that I enjoyed, but a couple standout by era: George Franck (1946 game, what a memory!); Pat Summerall (a broadcast idol, not just a football Giant); Doug Van Horn (What a great storyteller); Jim Burt (same as previous); Jeff Hostetler ( a real gentleman); Michael Strahan (he’s “Michael Strahan” 24/7) and Justin Tuck (incredible maturity for the youngest Giant, at 26 years old, interviewed for the book). That’s just off the top. I don’t want to slight anyone, as thankfully they all had their moments.As a fan it was a dream come true, I won’t lie to you. I must admit the Summerall one really gave me goosebumps. I have been a play-by-play broadcaster for some 25 years (hockey/football/a little baseball) at the college level and truly idolize Pat. He was the “voice of the NFL” and so classy, succinct, understated–a true professional. While I interviewed him, I half expected him to do the disclaimer for “60 Minutes” being seen at its regular time except on the West Coast.MW: I applaud you for not including the so-called "Greatest Game Ever Played" and for including four losses in the book. It was astute of you to recognize that this franchise is defined just as much by its historic defeats as it is by its great victories, and all true Giants fans know that heartbreaking losses can linger in the memory just as long, if not longer, than exhilarating wins. We've covered that here before. I am also well aware that you couldn't include everything, or else run the risk of an 800-page book. That said, there appear to me to be some rather glaring omissions in the book that, if you don't mind, I feel compelled to ask you about.While some are mentioned in passing, the book doesn't include significant coverage of any games from the 1986 or 2007 championship seasons other than the Super Bowls. That means no 4th & 17 in the Metrodome, no Mark Bavaro dragging Ronnie Lott 20 yards on Monday Night Football, no 1986 conference championship (17-0), no 2007 conference championship at frigid Lambeau. Those games are all, without question, among the most memorable of the past 25 years. Inexplicably, the book also includes zero games from the 1956 championship season and zero games played in the 10-year period between Jan. 1991 and Jan 2001.That's not even to mention the following 3 epic losses, all occurring in the postseason:1) The Trey Junkin Game2) The Flipper Anderson Game3) The Chris Calloway/Jake Reed GameSo, my question is, how can you devote 18 pages to a 1970 regular-season win over Washington and a 1966 blowout loss to that same Washington team in lieu of these games? What determined your criteria for inclusion?BC: Time and space were serious constraints. There’s certainly enough material for a volume II. We felt it was impossible to not include the Super Bowls that ended 1986/2007. That also allowed us to reference the games that you list in the course of our interviews in order to provide the back story regarding how the Giants got to the promised land in those memorable seasons.As far as 1956, the Giants overwhelmingly dominant performance in the title game (47-7) made it tough to include when faced with other choices from that era for that iconic group of players. Not including anything from 1991-2001 was once again a “numbers game”. It doesn’t mean that, say, the Dallas game from 1993 or the Chris Calloway/Jake Reed game (two more heartbreakers) weren’t memorable or deserving. We only had so much space to work with!As far as including the 1970 game, that was a watershed year for the Giants, the “almost year" during the “wilderness years” (1967-81). The 6th straight win tied a team record. It also gave us an opportunity to reference the Tarkenton Era. The 1966 game? It still stands as the record of the most points scored by one team in an NFL regular season game (72) and established the scoring mark for the two teams combined (113). unbelievable stuff. It defined the ineptitude of the “wilderness years” in an epic fashion.MW: What, in your opinion, is the #1 most memorable game in Giants history?BC: I think you can make a strong case for several, but here’s two about a half a century apart:The 1958 Summerall field goal game had it all. A “do-or die” scenario for the Giants, a legendary band of Big Blue brothers and Paul Brown’s Cleveland club with arguably the NFL’s greatest player. Throw in the snow covered field and blizzard-like conditions and you’ve got “frozen tundra” before “Frozen Tundra”.And of course it’s tough to argue with Super Bowl 42. The New York Times headline said it all, “A Perfect Ending…For The Giants”.MW: Do you think the 2010 Giants can compete for a division title? How about a Super Bowl?BC: I felt at the beginning of the season that the Giants were a solid playoff/division contender—a team that should win 10 games, which should be enough to make the playoffs. Now about a third of the way along in 2010, the whole conference is up for grabs. If the Giants can continue to progress/find their identity/keep their health, who knows? This could be a special year. More material for volume II.
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Note: I recently began writing a biweekly column about the Giants for MSG.com. Check out my latest piece, a preview of Sunday's Giants/Lions game, here. - Sep 27, 10It would be very easy for me to go negative here, to dwell on what an absolute horrorshow the Giants loss to the Titans was. I could work myself into a lather over the eleven penalties the Giants committed, six of them of the fifteen-yard personal variety. I could waste 2,000 words fixating angrily on the two turnovers near the goal line, the generally atrocious run blocking, the missed field goal, the chop-block safety. I could use this space to blast the Giants for playing perhaps their most undisciplined game of the Tom Coughlin era one week after being humiliated on national television, for losing--rather decisively--a game in which they outgained their opponent by 200 yards, mostly because they couldn't keep their heads. It's a post that could almost write itself.
But I am choosing, instead, to look past the Giants infuriating performance this afternoon and to keep things, at least for this week, in perspective. Because as frustrating as the game itself might have been for me, I got to spend it with my eight-year-old nephew, The Old Man, and my brother-in-law. I got to participate in a tri-generational Nerf toss in the parking lot and to eat a sleazy bacon cheeseburger I cooked myself. I got to tour the Giants Legacy Club before the game and to teach my nephew, an inquisitive, cheerful kid growing up a Giants fan in Redskins country, a little bit about Giants history. As an added bonus, I got to see one of my all-time favorite Giants in the flesh as we were walking into the stadium. I took it as a sign.
That isn't to say that I'm okay with what transpired down on the field today. I'm not, and no Giants fan should be. It also isn't any sort of indication that I'm mellowing, or that I won't blow a gasket next week if the Giants lay another egg on Sunday Night. All it means is that for one day the outcome of the football game, as disappointing as it was, was secondary to me to the gameday experience.
Games will be won and games will be lost. Some weeks we will exit the stadium exhilirated and other weeks we will leave dejected. But I learned today that in the presence of the right company, there are no bad days at (New) Giants Stadium. - Sep 13, 10If you were tuned in to the Giants victory over the Carolina Panthers on Fox Sunday afternoon, you no doubt noticed The Old Man's and my star turn near the end of the first half. On a day in which the Giants officially opened their new $1.7 billion home, Hakeem Nicks snagged three touchdown passes and four F-16s flew over the stadium during the national anthem, the capturing of our hirsute images by an astute Fox cameraman was clearly a highlight among highlights.
Now that The Old Man and I are bonafide TV stars, we both wanted to let you know that we are not letting this sudden yet obviously sustainable brush with fame go to our heads. While offers have been pouring in (I have been approached for endorsement by the good folks at Norelco and The Old Man by Cialis) and our phones are ringing off the hook, we've decided to politely decline these potentially lucrative flatteries as not to draw undue attention to ourselves on gameday.
If you happen to see us at the tailgate or on the concourse near section 133 in the coming weeks, feel free to say hello. Contrary to tabloid reports and The Old Man's outward demeanor, we do enjoy meeting and interacting with our fans whenever possible. But please, no photo and/or autograph requests. While your appreciation of our celebrated television work is encouraging, the demands on our time that such requests require prohibit us from attending to our true business at New Giants Stadium, namely the overconsumption of meat products and the berating of unwitting side judges at the tops of our lungs. We thank you for your understanding.For charitable inquiries, please submit your requests in writing by emailing weinstein@bluenatic.com and allow 6-8 weeks for a response. - Aug 28, 10I'm not quite sure why the folks at NFL.com invited the media—me, specifically—to their fifth annual "Media Sales Fantasy Football Draft" Thursday night at the swanky Edison Ballroom here in Manhattan. There was nothing particularly newsworthy about the event, or interesting, really. It was, in effect, little more than a private party thrown for the league's media buyers (companies with distinctively 21st century names like Targetcast and Mediavest) in which they turned an otherwise ordinary 16-team fantasy football draft into an elaborate spectacle, complete with dazzling video presentations, unlimited beer and wine, and four different varieties of slider, including seared tuna.The event was emceed by Scott Hanson, the affable if somewhat irritating host of Redzone TV on the NFL Network, a channel my cable provider, Time Warner Cable, stubbornly refuses to carry. It also featured special appearances by former Jet great Curtis Martin and master thespian/Subway pitchman Michael Strahan, neither of whom was made available to the media. I couldn't get within ten feet of either of them.It was the kind of event I imagine established media guys like Neil Best get invited to all the time but have the good sense not to attend, the kind of self-serving corporate circle-jerk the major professional sports leagues have mastered. I guess what the NFL wanted us to write about is their new fantasy football game, which unlike their well-entrenched competitors will offer exclusive, in-game video highlights this season.A kind NFL staffer labored through a personal demonstration of the new fantasy interface for me on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, where the media (including Sparty & Friends' favorite blogger, Dan Shanoff) appeared to be sequestered, and I can't say I noticed anything particularly remarkable (or unremarkable) about it. It's a clean design which seems easy to navigate, but I think it's going to take a while before NFL.com starts cutting into CBS Sportsline's and ESPN's sizeable market share in any significant way. The live video is a nice touch but it's probably not enough, especially considering how it's not yet available for mobile devices.I guess the most interesting thing about the event was seeing just how serious the NFL has gotten about their investment in fantasy football after years of distancing itself from it over concerns about its connection to gambling. With an estimated 27.7 million Americans playing fantasy football—as many as play golf—there was just too much money on the table for them to pass up. NFL.com's fantasy game is free, but the advertisements that appear on its pages (and on NFL Network fantasy-oriented shows) certainly won't be. And now that the league is unapologetically partnering with state lotteries on scratch-off games, they certainly seem less concerned about associating their brand with gambling than they were in the past.With $80-$100 billion dollars being illegally bet on NFL games every year, the NFL can't help but get in on the action. Who can blame them? More so than any other sport, spread betting has long been a big part of their game's appeal. The league would never explicitly endorse it as long as it remains illegal, of course (though they remain grateful for the television audience and advertising revenue it generates), but they'd be fools not to try to cash in on the public's gambling obsession in some other, more legitimate way.
As for last night, all I can say is that it did get me excited for the upcoming football season, which is now less than two weeks away. And it was also nice to get an early look at an active fantasy draft board, with my own draft coming up early next week. After a disastrous 2009 campaign I now hold the #3 and #26 (and #31) picks, and last night did give me some ideas for guys to target.
Too bad my draft will be held online, sans seared tuna sliders and celebrity cameos.Here are the results of the Media Sales Draft's first round:1. Chris Johnson, RB, TEN2. Adrian Peterson, RB, MIN3. Maurice Jones-Drew, RB, JAX4. Ray Rice, RB, BAL5. Drew Brees, QB, NO6. Frank Gore, RB, SF7. Aaron Rodgers, QB, GB8. Andre Johnson, WR, HOU9. Peyton Manning, QB, IND10. Tom Brady, QB, NE11. Michael Turner, RB, ATL12. Randy Moss, WR, NE13. Brandon Marshall, WR, MIA14. Calvin Johnson, WR, DET15. Miles Austin, WR, DAL16. Rashard Mendenhall, RB, PIT - Aug 23, 10
- Sep 14, 10Are We Winning?, Will Leitch's endearing homage to baseball, his father and the St. Louis Cardinals (in that order), is a breezy, surprisingly snark-free read that avoids, somewhat miraculously, veering too far off into sentimentality. I have to say that I enjoyed it about as much as I can enjoy a book about a team I once loathed that doesn't have a table of contents.
While the book does get awfully personal, the Cardinals and Leitch's dad could reasonably serve as stand-ins for any team and father. There's a commonality that runs across fanbases and the father-son dynamic that Leitch is able to successfully tap into, affording his work a broader perspective. It's easy to see yourself in his experience, even if you don't own seven Rick Ankiel jerseys, and for that reason Are We Winning? makes for an outstanding Fathers Day gift for the baseball loving dad with a basic understanding of Sabermetrics.
That is not to say the book isn't without its faults. Disappointingly for this book editor, it contains more errors than the average Little League game. The majority of these errors are minor, however, and none of them lead to disaster. Like a crafty pitcher, Leitch manages to limit the damage and save himself from the "big inning" with writing that's equivalent to a strikeout and a ground ball double play. It gets the job done with remarkable efficiency, humor, insight and, perhaps most of all, genuine sincerity. But the errors are there. Dozens of them.
I also could have done without the scorebook chapter, which I found unnecessary and indulgent the way it was presented, and there were some instances of offputting repetition as well. But the few missteps Leitch takes throughout the book are more than made up for by his Steve Bartman and Brooklyn rooftop chapters, both of which are excellent, heartfelt, and the best indications of Leitch's unique talents as a writer and storyteller. If overall the book isn't as much of a home run as it is a hard-hit double in the gap, I concede that I might have gotten more out of it if I had Midwestern roots and cared deeply for Leitch's Redbirds. But I got plenty out of it regardless, far more than I got out of his previous book, which I found far less amusing than it seemed to find itself.If I have one major criticism of the book, it's the goofy logic that went into the creation of the following paragraph:Football is once a week. You can pay little to no attention to football, and it's still always there for you on Sundays and Monday nights. It requires no effort, no investment, no obsession. Anyone can sound like they know football, and anyone can appreciate its violence. But it asks little of you. You can like football, a lot, and no one will really notice. It does not require you to love it. It does not require much at all. There are people who love football, who obsess over it, who follow it the way millions of others follow baseball. They are the minority. Football does not breed diehards.
I guess if my hometown football team split for the desert when I was 12 years old, not to be replaced until I had left that town and was away at college, I might have similar feelings about NFL allegiances. But Leitch's argument that football's once-a-week schedule requires less of a commitment from its fans is, to be polite, ludicrous.
Sure, baseball teams play 6 or 7 games a week, every week of a six-month season. Following a team requires a daily commitment. But if a baseball team suffers a soul-crushing loss on a Friday night, the team and its fanbase is afforded an immediate shot at redemption the following afternoon. There's therefore little time to dwell excessively on losses, no matter how heartbreaking, because there are games to play, and games require focus. Plus, there are 162 of them. While they each count equally in the standings, it is not reasonable to expect even the most diehard baseball fan to devote the same level of intensity to each contest. Instead, baseball fans tend to yield to the natural ebb and flow of the season, ratcheting up the intensity for key series and, in the event of a pennant race, for the stretch run.
But football fans? In football, the 16-game schedule dictates that each and every contest is of the utmost importance. Football fans live and die with every snap, knowing that one big play or catastrophic injury can and often does turn a season. The gameday experience is defined by its relentless intensity. And after a game, once the intensity ostensibly subsides, fans then have six days to analyze what happened from every conceivable angle, to second guess the coaches, to crucify the player who missed the key block or who blew his coverage assignment. We've got six days to read the beat reporters, the shit-stirring columnists, the knee-jerk bloggers and message board posters, to listen to the TV and radio pundits spit their unique brand of venom. It's enough to drive a fan mad.
Perhaps I'm in "the minority," but I do this after every game. The coverage is endless, and I read everything. I read reporters and columnists from papers I'd never otherwise have occasion to peruse (The Journal News? The Star Ledger?) just to see if they caught something the other beat guys missed. I read hundreds of blog and message board posts. Hell, I even subscribe to The Giants Insider, a weekly tabloid of dubious quality, because there simply isn't enough information about the New York Giants out there to satisfy me before the next game.
And that, I'd argue, requires more of an investment, more of an effort than being a baseball fan does (and I am a baseball fan). It requires more because it forces us to study, to be informed in advance of the next contest. It requires more because the individual games mean more, and because the games take more out of us. A bad Giants loss can take me several days to recover from. A season-ending loss can take months. Years, even. As a season ticket holder who gladly braves rain, snow, and single-digit wind chills (do baseball fans do that?), I think it's safe to say I'm committed (or should be committed). If Mr. Leitch disagrees, I invite him to plead his case at our next five-hour tailgate, provided he doesn't mention Yadier Molina.
He can even bring his dad. - May 04, 10My precious daughter, Ruby, will be 10 weeks old on Thursday. She can't speak, or crawl, or even hold her head up on her own yet, but like her daddy she's already a huge Giants and Mets fan.
For evidence, just take a look in her dresser drawers, where various Giants and Mets onesies, t-shirts, hats, bibs, pairs of socks and the hoodie she's unhappily modeling in the picture to the right* can all be found. That's a lot of gear for a 10-week-old. Ruby's even got a book about the Mets that she's infrequently attentive enough to sit through, and in efforts to calm her or to put her to sleep I've sung the first verse of "Meet the Mets" to her several hundred times. What can I say? It's a catchy tune.
The Old Man and I have already successfully indoctrinated her 8-year-old cousin into our little cult of Giants fandom--no small feat when you consider that he's growing up with a Pats-fan father in the heart of Redskins country--and in doing so I learned, as any worthwhile cult leader will tell you, that the key to indoctrination is that you've got to get to them young. So with so much at stake here, I've wasted no time with Ruby. At this rate she'll be screaming at television screens by the All-Star break, breaking down film come winter.
But Jason Fry's recent post to the always outstanding Faith and Fear in Flushing about his 7-year-old son's discovery of his first sports nemesis and the the larger issue of inviting young children to "stick their innocent fingers into emotional light sockets over and over again", got me thinking. Is it fair of me to foist my insane sports allegiances on my daughter before she's able to determine on her own whether or not the Giants or Mets (or both or neither) are worth such a significant investment of her time and emotional energy? By willfully exposing her to the heartbreaks and anxieties inherent in devoted fandom--by subjecting her to the wild rollercoaster rides that make up seasons--am I setting her up for a life of torment? Moreover, am I being an irresponsible parent?
On one hand, sports are something she and I can share together, even when we can't come together on much else. The games present an opportunity for some invaluable father-daughter (and grandfather-daughter) bonding. But on the other, more extreme hand, encouraging her to give her heart to the Giants and Mets is tantamount to child abuse, or at least child endangerment. And if that seems like too harsh an assessment to you, think again. I know these teams.
If Fry's blogmate, Greg Prince, loves the Mets because he loves the Mets, then the same can be said of me and my Giants. I love the Giants because I love the Giants, but it would be disingenuous of me if I didn't also say that I love the Giants (and Mets) because of my Old Man. Like little Ruby, I, too, was born into bluenacy. Indoctrinated, if you will. While I concede that I have, through my own unique mania, taken that bluenacy to another, more obsessive level, I can't even remember a time when I wasn't a Giants fan. The Giants, like freckles and, later, eyeglasses, have always been a part of my identity. I never had a choice, really, until it was too late. The Old Man got to me when I was young.
He, however, did have a choice. Inspired as a 12-year-old by the heroics of the Giants 1956 championship team he made a conscious choice, two years later, to venture by subway from his home in the Bronx near the South end of Van Cortlandt Park to Yankee Stadium, where after showing his G.O. Card and paying fifty cents he was admitted (along with 63,191 others) to the Giants' December 14th game versus the Cleveland Browns. It was his very first (Football) Giants game, and an important one. The boys in blue needed a win that cold, snowy day to tie Cleveland atop the standings of the NFL's Eastern Division and to force a playoff. After yielding a 65-yard touchdown run to a 22-year-old Jim Brown on Cleveland's first play from scrimmage and missing two field goals (one from just 32 yards), the Giants scored 10 points in the fourth quarter, including a miraculous 49-yard Pat Summerall field goal through swirling snow with just under two minutes remaining to win the game, 13-10.
It was an historic victory. 48 years later, it was ranked the 49th greatest day in New York sports history in a book by Stuart Miller, #3 among days concerning the Giants (behind only the '56 title game and the "Sneakers Game" of 1934). One week later the Giants shut out those same Browns (10-0) to take the Eastern Division crown, setting up their now legendary championship showdown with Johnny Unitas and the Baltimore Colts in the contest commonly referred to by sportswriters and fans as The Greatest Game Ever Played. Needless to say, my 14-year-old Old Man was hooked. For good. Six years later, after the Giants made their sixth championship game appearance in eight years, he purchased four season tickets that he has yet, to this day, to relinquish.
How quickly it all fell apart. Despite losing 5 of those 6 championship games, the Giants team that captured the Old Man's imagination played a decidedly winning brand of football. They boasted superstars on both sides of the ball--future Hall of Fame names like Gifford, Robustelli, Tittle, Tunnell, Brown and Huff--players who became, in turn, the darlings of Madison Avenue. But in 1964, the Old Man's first year as a season ticket holder, the Giants finished 2-10-2. By 1966, the year the Giants posted their worst-ever record (1-12-1), every single one of those Hall of Fame players was gone. It would not get better for quite some time.To his credit, or as a sign of his penchant for masochism, the Old Man stuck with them. And in the second decade of what is now referred to as the Giants' "Wilderness Years," 1975, I was born. A year later came Giants Stadium. And in the Fall of 1981--Lawrence Taylor's first NFL season--the Old Man started taking me to the games. That season, after seventeen consecutive years without a postseason appearance, the Giants finally made the playoffs. I guess you could say I was a good luck charm. I know the Old Man thought I was. What's more, in me he finally had someone with whom he could share his misery (and trivia), someone to inherit his increasingly heavy burden. I was the one who could, at long last, validate his fandom, who could prove that he didn't endure seventeen years of lousy football for nothing.I don't remember much about the first game he took me to. I don't know if the Giants won or lost, or even who the opponent was. What I do remember, though, is being awed by the spectacle of professional football, by the intensity of the experience. I also remember The Old Man telling me to "watch number 56" but not being able to peel my eyes off of number 53. But whether or not I knew or understood it at the time, that afternoon I was invited into the club of long-suffering Giants fans, an invitation I readily accepted without hesitation. Just like that I was a Giants fan for life. And though my resolve has been tested several times over the years that followed (most notably during The Dave Brown era), I can't say that I've ever seriously regretted my decision. Still, it was not an informed decision.
When I made that fateful decision to pledge my lifelong loyalty to the New York Giants, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. None whatsoever. How could I have? I was just a seven-year-old kid. What did I know about pain and loss? What did I know about disappointment? Even if the Old Man had warned me (which, wisely, he didn't), how could I have possibly known that being a die hard fan would bring with it stress and despair with far greater frequency than it would exultant triumph and joy? To paraphrase Yeats, what need did I have to dread the monstrous crying of the wind?
Now that I know better, it's far too late. I've reached the point of no return, and will never get out of this alive. But little Ruby still has a fighting chance. Maybe. If she's strong, she may be able to resist the allure of the game, to deny the attraction of its beguiling spectacle. Maybe I'll figure out a way to explain to her what it is she's signing up for in terms a child can understand, offering up an early lesson in risk and reward. Or perhaps she'll be blessed with the gift of perspective, an ability to differentiate between a game played on an artificial field by a bunch of athletic strangers and, well, real fucking life.
Doubtful. Chances are that from the first tailgate she'll embrace it without thinking, just like I did. Then I'll embrace her, knowing that our season tickets will be in good hands for at least one more generation, uneasily resigned to accept the truth that bluenacy runs in our veins.
I apologize in advance, sweetheart. I know you didn't ask for this. One day, perhaps after a Super Bowl, you'll find it in your heart to forgive me._______________________________________________________________________
* Ruby made that face after learning, on Sunday night, that both Gary Matthews, Jr. and Fernando Tatis were in the Mets starting lineup. - Apr 28, 10The Old Man and I got our first up-close look at the Giants' swanky new 1.7 billion dollar digs on Saturday morning. Despite being denied the pleasure of a rare offseason tailgate, we were both very much looking forward to sitting down in the seats we just plunked down twenty grand for* and taking in the scene from a vantage-point that will hopefully become as familiar to us as the view from row 6 of section 127 had been at the old building.
After negotiating the parking lot with surprising ease, we entered the unnamed stadium at the Pepsi Gate and, after a brief detour at midfield, made our way to our new home in section 133. The seats we had been assigned were supposedly comparable to those we had inhabited at Giants Stadium, only two rows closer to the field. Row 6 at Giants Stadium had been close enough for visiting players and officials to hear our infrequently creative shouts of derision ("Hey Dexter, read this!") and for me to once nearly catch an errant punt during pregame warm-ups, but row 4? Row 4 is close enough to hear the snap count. Row 4 is close enough to chat-up the side judge, if one were so inclined.
Emerging from the tunnel, I made a beeline for row 4. But when I got to the bottom of the section and checked the number of the first row, it read "5." Rows 1-4 were, inexplicably, nowhere to be found.
What an absolutely deflating moment. We felt like the Griswold's at the gates of Walley World. Sorry, folks. Park's closed. Moose out front shoulda told ya. After expressing our disbelief, we located a member of the stadium's guest services staff, an amiable, curly-haired fellow who assured us that the seats did, in fact, exist yet for some reason weren't installed. Because the stadium had been built to accommodate various configurations for a multitude of events, he explained, a large number of the seats ringing the field in the lower bowl were removable. Those included rows 1-4 of section 133, the seats the Old Man had just driven an hour and a half to sit in.
Needless to say this didn't sit well with us. So we sought out a higher-level staff member stationed on the concourse behind section 146 to whom we could voice our displeasure and, we hoped, get some real answers from. The staff member was found but the answers, unfortunately, were not. Instead, the staff member (who, to her credit, was very nice despite being quite obviously overwhelmed) took the Old Man's name, number and email address and told us to expect a call sometime this week. As of this writing, no such call has come.
Beyond the disappointment of not being able to view our seats at an event billed as a "seat viewing" (or even being able to confirm that they exist) I have to admit that I was also underwhelmed by the new facility in general. I am aware that we're still 4 months from the first preseason game and that efforts will be made in the interim to spruce-up and beautify the place, but right now it's a whole lot of drab concrete, a whole lot of gray. And with the upstart co-tenant going halfsies on the project and demanding if not deserving equal footing within, I don't see how that's going to change in any significant way. Other than the Coach's Club, which we saw for the first and last time on Saturday, the place has a very industrial feel. Cold and austere. Decidedly corporate.
The gigantic video boards in each corner are cool, I guess, if gigantic video boards are your sort of thing. And the view that best approximates the one we will supposedly have from our non-existent row is pretty awesome, too. The seats themselves are more comfortable and offer more leg room than the seats in the old building, as well, and there appear to be more and larger bathrooms in addition to significantly wider concourses. I'm not trying to be negative, really. I'm sure, in time, the new joint will grow on me, just like New Shea has. It's just hard for me to embrace the place right now, not just because I have nowhere to sit inside of it, but also because the old building is literally standing on its last legs a stone's throw away.
That, besides learning that our seats might not exist, was my main problem with the seat-viewing. From the moment we pulled off of Route 3, my eyes and attention kept veering towards the demolition across the parking lot. Looking at it from certain angles, Giants Stadium--my old treehouse--reminded me of the Roman Colosseum, a modern ruin. I took a total of 19 photos in the hour and change that we were there, and 9 of them were of the demolition. Check them out here, if you can stomach it.
The only similarity between the old building and the new building, from what I can tell, is that our seats didn't exist in either on Saturday. I can still buy a pair from the old building for $499 if I want, though. In the new building, $499 will buy a round of beers. Maybe a pretzel.
The Giants must be under the impression that the fans, like the lower stands, are removable, reconfigurable. In other words, replaceable. Even 46-year season ticket holders like The Old Man. And, sadly, they're probably right. But that doesn't mean we're not owed an explanation and an apology. Considering our investment, in both dollars and years (not to mention emotional energy), that's the least they can do.
Not content to take the moose out front's word for it, we anxiously await their call.____________________________________________________________________* We meaning he.
4/28 UPDATE: I guess the squeaky wheel really does get the grease. The Old Man received a call this afternoon from one Kevin Frattura, Vice President of Sales for Giants Stadium, LLC. Mr. Frattura explained to the Old Man that our seats do, in fact, exist, and that they had been removed to accommodate a configuration for soccer. He mentioned that he was calling at the urging of Giants VP of Communication Pat Hanlon, who had been made aware of this post. Thanks, Pat. - Sep 13, 12"She knows there's no success like failure,
And that failure's no success at all."-- Bob Dylan, "Love Minus Zero/No Limit"
Book editors, like placekickers and relief pitchers, need to have short memories or else risk certain madness. Like layoffs and papercuts, the tendency to dwell on one's failures is an occupational hazard for those in my profession, and over the years it has shortened the careers of far better editors than myself.Books, if granted the power, can haunt an editor. They can shadow one's movements, cloud one's judgment. And not just the failures (or even the successes), but the ones that get away, too. The ones we lose at auction or those which, whether through our own miscalculations or due to circumstances beyond our control, manage to slip through our desirous fingers.The ones that get away are, for some, the hardest to move past. I know they are for me. It's easy to brush off the disappointing sales of a book you had high hopes for by blaming its performance on breakdowns in the sales, marketing and/or publicity departments. I'm a pro at that. It's also easy to write-off a bestseller as a stroke of luck, fortuitous timing, or the result of a major media booking. All of those things are external, and have little to do with the work you, as the acquiring editor, invested in a book's development and subsequent birth into the world of letters. I have to continually remind myself that there's only so much an editor can do, because we do plenty, including cheerleading.
I'm no stranger to ones that get away, either, professionally or personally. There have been girls, sure. Jobs. Opportunities creative and otherwise, all blown. Somehow or another they've all gotten away from me, eluded my flailing grasp. And those are just the ones I was alert enough to recognize.
I got into this business thinking that it would lead me, through the relationships I'd forge, to a book (or many books) of my own. I had been inspired by masterworks like Frederick Exley's A Fan's Notes and Roger Kahn's The Boys of Summer--non-traditional sports books of true literary merit--so I set out in my early days in the business to find the next Exley, the next Kahn, while working on my own would-be masterpiece in my spare time. Only it never happened.
Instead, like many editors before me, I am left today with a half of a novel and some vague notes tucked away in a drawer I never open. The unfinished novel centered around a neurotic Jewish writer living in New York City (quite a stretch, I know) whose best friend, nicknamed "The Duke," had distinguished himself by playing three replacement games for the narrator's beloved New York Giants as a weakside linebacker and special teams wedge-buster during the strike-shortened 1987 season. The overcomplicated plot dictated the employment of a novel-within-a-novel technique that I had neither the faculty nor the patience to get right, and as a result the book sputtered to a stop after about 150 exasperated pages.
Once, I summoned the courage to share those pages with a more senior editor at my first book publishing job, a lovely dark-haired woman whose opinion I respected and who, not so coincidentally, I secretly desired. She responded by telling me that what I had written was "picaresque", a comment which sent me scrambling for a dictionary. I'm still not sure whether she meant the remark as a compliment or an indictment of my amateurishness, but it hardly matters now.
The attempt at the novel came after I made, in my late teens and early-to-mid twenties, what I believed was a wholehearted effort to become a poet in full. For my efforts I was twice rejected by The University of Michigan's subconcentration program in creative writing, rejections I mistook, naively, as poetic themselves. I produced hundreds of pages of energetic, mostly indecipherable poetry in those years. They included some interesting language and image experiments I guess, but on the whole the poems lacked substance. Mostly I was just aping my heroes, and not particularly well. The poems were, in retrospect, like a fireworks show after a baseball game, except the baseball game got rained out. Still, that didn't stop me from submitting them to hundreds of literary magazines, submissions which resulted in a deluge of rejections dotted by occasional, uplifting placements in unmentionable, ephemeral publications more often than not bound by side-saddle staplers. One such publication, if memory serves, was called Meat Whistle Quarterly. My first published poem, released in a green-papered broadside by the folks at Poetry Motel in Duluth, focused its attention on ejaculate. How proud my mother was.
I also made a run at writing a screenplay. Three drafts, each one worse than the last. Eventually, my frustration with it extended beyond my capacity for revision. So one night, under the influence of cheap bourbon, I rode the R train all the way out to Coney Island and threw the motherfucker in the ocean. At the time I thought it, too, was a poetic gesture, until the discovery several years later of a floppy disk (remember them?) containing all three drafts, plus notes, which I haven't since had the stomach to discard. I keep it in the same drawer as my half-novel.
Then there was the music, which represents another post for another time. I can't go there now.
Those personal creative failures have led me--not without some resistance--to my current position, where they hover over my cubicle like Eliot's women "talking of Michelangelo". As an editor, I've spent the past 10 years giving rise to others' voices, hiding (not always expertly) behind them, a would-be Cyrano of sportswriting. I've had my share of successes and more than my share of failures along the way. I've worked with writers whose work was possessed of great craft yet lacked heart, and I've worked with writers whose work had heart in spades yet lacked essential elements of craft. Once or twice I was lucky enough to work with a writer who had it all, but I've also had to re-write more books than I'd care to admit.
Through acquiring and editing something in the neighborhood of 200 books on sports I've managed, however, to carve out a nice little niche for myself in the publishing world. See, I'm the editor who, when you call up to pitch a book about, say, the American Football League or the training of champion prizefighters, has an informed opinion on those subjects. I'm the editor who often knows more about these subjects than the agent calling to pitch me does. Sadly, this makes me a rare species among my peers, yet it has won me more books over the course of my career than I've lost over such petty concerns as money.
One of those books was a delightful volume entitled Mets by the Numbers. Sometime in the Summer of 2007 I was sitting in field level box seats at Shea Stadium with the authors of that book when one of them, the knowledgeable and talented Jon Springer, asked me if I was familiar with a blog called Cardboard Gods. I wasn't.
"It's written by a guy named Josh Wilker," Jon said. "He's incredible. I read a few recent posts, and they were so good I went back to the beginning and read them all."
That night, when I got home, I did the same thing. It took me hours, but no more than five minutes passed before I realized that in Josh Wilker I had finally found my Exley (earlier, I had found my Kahn by working with the actual Kahn). For the first time since I'd read A Fan's Notes all those years earlier, I encountered a voice that seemed to speak to me directly. I bookmarked the site and made it a daily must-read. I recommended it to everyone I knew, sports fans and non-sports fans alike, creating a micro-legion of devoted acolytes in the process.
My identification with Wilker's voice, like Exley's, is curious, as on the surface he and I have little in common beyond our shared love of baseball and the baseball cards of our respective youths. To begin, he's got nearly a decade on me. We were also raised in drastically different environments, under rather different circumstances. One of the happiest moments of my youth is the coin's flipside to one of his most deflating. The dissimilarities only become more pronounced from there.
Despite these differences, there was just something to Wilker's voice that I couldn't shake. Perhaps it's because the voice is so personal, so openly vulnerable and honest. Perhaps it was because Wilker had found a way to write about sports without really writing about sports at all. But perhaps, unconsciously, I related to his voice because I, too, knew what it felt like to never quite fit in. I, too, had known failure.
Whatever the reason, I checked the site every day, the posts unraveling like small miracles before me, sustaining me, and I always felt disappointed on the rare days when a new entry failed to appear.About a year later, in March of 2008, I contacted Wilker after reading about "the bloodsucking nature of every single editor and agent in the universe" in a post he'd written about Gene Pentz of the Houston Astros. Sensing an opening, I expressed in a cordial email my admiration for his writing and my interest in turning Cardboard Gods into a book. He responded within hours, and with that, the courtship was underway. While it was far from my first rodeo, it wasn't his either. He had, I surmised, been burned by editors and agents before, so I treaded with caution. But it was hard to mask my enthusiasm for the project.
A short proposal soon followed which I shared with my publisher, a non-baseball fan. It proved, not-so surprisingly, a tough sell for him.It's a book about baseball cards?
Yes and no. More like a memoir.
About baseball cards?
Not exactly. The cards are only a part of it.
Hmmn. Has he published a book before?
10 books for young readers. This one is nothing like those.
How did they sell?
Not well. Did you read the proposal?
No. Can you print it out for me again?
Will you do me a favor? Just read this one post I've printed out.
Sure. But who's Bob Colluccio?
Never in my editorial career--not before or since--had I desired an acquisition more. Books for which I'd offered six-figure advances paled in comparison. My biggest successes--bestsellers, critical raves--all fell away from my memory. I was convinced Cardboard Gods was the book that would define my career. At long last I'd have discovered a unique talent and helped nurture his inimitable voice into the world. It would be as close as I'd ever get to knowing greatness. Little did I know that I was tilting at windmills.
A few weeks later, in a nondescript Thai restaurant on ninth avenue, I made the critical mistake of mentioning my fondness for Cardboard Gods to an ambitious young literary agent. I'm not sure why I did it. Maybe I was self-sabotaging. Maybe I was thinking she wouldn't remember. But the most likely explanation is that I wasn't thinking at all. Wilker retained the young agent's services not long after that, and a new, revised proposal soon circulated. I didn't even read it. Instead, I went to my publisher and made my plea, emerging from his office with a modest offer which I shared with the agent at the end of a far-too-dramatic email.
The story gets more complicated from there, but by this point I am sure you can ascertain how it ended. In short, I did not acquire the book. It would be ungentlemanly of me to say why, exactly, so I won't. Instead I'll just say that I came very close, and that the determining factor was beyond my control. I don't harbor any ill will against the author or his agent, who was gracious enough to send me a review copy a few months back. I'm happy for Josh that he was able to secure, through his agent, a better deal elsewhere, because he deserves it. I'm also happy for the folks at Seven Footer Press, who had the prescience to realize what an absolute gem had fallen into their laps. I wish them all the best of luck. But that doesn't take away the sting of this "one that got away", because its getting away was entirely my fault. I have nobody to blame but myself. Again.
The book, of course, is extraordinary. It's even better than I expected it to be, and I expected a whole hell of a lot. I recommend it without qualification to anyone who enjoys great writing, regardless of one's opinion of baseball (or baseball cards). It's the kind of book that serves to reaffirm the form, that reminds you that books still have the power to move people in profound ways. It certainly moved me. More than that, it's caused me to reevaluate my entire adult life.
No small feat, Josh. I only wish that I could fail as beautifully as you have. - Apr 02, 10Those of you fellow Bluenatics who might have been planning to make a day out of the forthcoming seat-viewing/open house at the still unnamed new Giants Stadium by partaking in a rare offseason tailgate will no doubt be disappointed to learn that your attempts at grilling glory will be thwarted.I called Giants Stadium LLC yesterday afternoon to ask about tailgating at the event and was told by the nice fellow who took my call that I was the first person to make this inquiry. "That's a good question," the fellow said. He then told me that a superior would need to be consulted before an answer could be provided. So I gave the guy my name and cell number and 20 minutes later he called back to let me in on the disappointing news. Sorry, Giants fans, but no tailgating will be permitted in the lots before, during or after the open houses scheduled for April 24th and 25th. Rats.It's a good thing I called, I guess. If I really was the first to formally inquire about the Giants tailgating policy for this event, then I can only assume that many fans are operating under the reasonable assumption that tailgating will be allowed and that they'll show up with their grills and coolers and beat-up camping chairs ready to get down, easy like Sunday morning.The Giants, I'm sad to report, seem ill-prepared for this eventuality. Their decision to prohibit tailgating also leads me to believe that they're lacking the kind of intuition that would help them better understand and serve their fanbase, which co-owner and team president John Mara recently referred to as “the most loyal in all of sports."That kind of loyalty is a great benefit to Mara and the Giants, because a less loyal, less patient fanbase might take issue with having to wait until two weeks after their new facility hosts its first event (a college lacrosse game between Hofstra and Delaware, of all things) before getting an in-person look at the seats they just shelled out tens of thousands of dollars for the right to purchase. Seats that will cost significantly more than the ones they just vacated.The Giants shouldn't take that kind of loyalty for granted, either. After all, it was only last week that they finally announced that they'd sold all of the non-club level PSLs in the new building. This obviously took them longer than they'd anticipated, their fans being so loyal. And all they had to do was run through the entirety of their legendary waiting list to sell them. 133,000-plus names, according to some reports.But even the most loyal of fans want to be treated like the team they've invested their hearts and savings in is attuned to their needs. And while it's true that tailgates don't help win football games and that, it can be reasonably argued, they decrease concessions and therefore hurt the team's bottom line, they have become such a vital component of the gameday experience that in some ways they've surpassed the game itself. Because it's at the tailgate where friends and family members gather to renew and enliven their relationships. It's at the tailgate where we schmooze over grilled meats, cold beers and thrown footballs to re-connect in a way we never could inside a roaring stadium, over a telephone or in our homes at holiday time amidst a million distractions. The tailgate, friends, is our escape. It's a stress-free, drama-free zone. The tailgate offers us a chance to collectively exhale, if only for a few hours.When the team announced about two weeks ago that they’d be holding this exclusive seat-viewing/open house for their PSL holders on April 24th & 25th, I got excited. Sure, I’ve had my reservations about the new facility, but after seeing video of the demolition of my “old treehouse” and terrific images of my shiny new one, I began to prepare myself, mentally and emotionally, for the transition. And when my old friend Mosty suggested a tailgate, I took it as a stroke of pure inspiration. After all, what better way to embrace our new beginning at the Meadowlands than through the ritual of the tailgate? What better way to honor the legacy of the old building (most of which remains standing) that held so many great memories than by grilling one last rack of succulent ribs in its still formidable shadow?And what would it take, really, for the Giants to grant us that wish? A few extra security guards? A permit of some sort? Some maintenance people? A bunch of porta-potties? Is that so much to ask?Those of you who've visited this blog regularly since its inception more than 3 years ago or who know me personally are aware of the lengths I am usually willing to go to defend the Giants organization. I offer no apologies about being a homer and I never pretend to be an objective observer of happenings in the Giants universe. If anything, this blog has existed simply as a means for me to express my fawning adulation for my childhood heroes and their blue-jerseyed brethren. So when the Giants disappoint me on the field, I can accept it. That's part of the unwritten fan contract we all sign before we're wise enough to know better. We agree to accept X amount of heartbreak in return for the promise of an ultimate measure of redemption, though both parties acknowledge that restrictions apply. In that regard, Giants fans of my vintage have been most fortunate.But when the Giants disappoint me like this it's different, though I fully concede that I'm probably overreacting. In the grand scheme of things, one tailgate doesn't mean all that much. Still, this decision by the Giants brass seems short-sighted at best, dunderheaded at worst. The good thing is they've got 25 days to make it right, to recognize that this is not a time to be saying "no" to their loyal fans. 2010 offers us all a chance for a fresh new beginning, so I implore the Giants to reconsider and greenlight the grilling.Can I interest you in some bacon-wrapped shrimp, Mr. Mara? The secret of the tailgate is that they taste like
victoryloyalty.
________________________________________________________________________
4/1 Update - Giants VP of Communications Pat Hanlon responds via Twitter: "Bluenatic, once we're in the bldg and Giants Stadium is down, parking lots are up, etc, you can grill til heart's content...thanks" - May 25, 10You're a rather difficult fellow to find, I must say, especially for a lazy non-reporter like myself who didn't try very hard*. My guess is, after the unfortunate events of December 23, 1995 and their subsequent aftermath, you moved away from the area. Who could blame you?Still, you may have heard that the San Diego Chargers are coming to town to take on the Giants this Sunday, Jeff. Would you believe the last time the Chargers visited Giants Stadium was 1995?I know, I know. It's crazy. I was at that game, too. And 14 years is a long time to wait for redemption, brother.Hell, I was 20 years old then. I had long hair, two earrings in my left ear, and not a care in the world at the time. I thought Phish was really rad. The Giants, on the other hand, were not rad, Jeff. Instead, they were awful. This was year two of the Dave Brown era, mind you. The season, I'm sure you remember, opened with a 35-0 home loss to Dallas on Monday Night Football and did not get much better after that. The team finished 5-11 and did not have a single player selected to the Pro Bowl for the second consecutive year. Not even Rodney Hampton, who posted a career-high 1,182 yards rushing that season. So when 24 unanswered second-half points turned a promising 17-3 halftime lead into yet another agonizing loss, punctuated with the final indignity of a 99-yard interception return for a touchdown, you and I and everyone else at Giants Stadium let it be known we'd had enough.And we reached down below our seats, filled our ski-gloved hands with copious amounts of hard-packed snow (and ice), and hurled it. Boy did we hurl it.That's where you come in, Jeff. And the 15 guys who got arrested that day. And the 115 fans who were ejected by police, ejections resulting in the revocation of 75 season-ticket packages. It was quite a scene.But as you argued before the judge, you were far from the only one throwing snowballs that miserable Christmas Eve Eve. You were just the one unlucky enough to be singled out by an Associated Press cameraman and, the following day, by The New York Post. Tough break, Jeff.
As my friend Andy (who attended this game with me and The Old Man) recently recalled over email, "every single person in that stadium was throwing snowballs. Every single one." That may be little consolation to you now, seeing as how your life's been ruined and all, but Andy is 100% right. Everyone was throwing snowballs. If you know someone who attended that game, be assured that that person chucked some snow. That means your mom, your dad, your uncle Lou. Father McGuigan. Your barber, your congressman, your nanna. Sheila from accounts receivable and her husband, Irv. Your fourth grade teacher, your dry cleaner, the Harry M. Stevens guy. All the dudes in the wheelchair section. Everyone, Jeff. Everyone.**"I hate to see this," Giants owner Wellington Mara said shortly afterward, "but I guess it's human nature. People see snow, they make snowballs."Why nobody came forward to defend you, other than your attorney, I can't really say. I can only assume it was because the rest of us feared losing our season tickets. Or maybe it had something to do with your previous burglary and assault charges. But 14 years later, now that the statute of limitations has run out, I'll confess that I lobbed one or two myself, most likely in the general direction of the side judge. I've always had it in for side judges, Jeff.I'm fairly certain, though, that neither you nor I was the fan whose icy projectile struck and knocked unconscious Chargers equipment manager Sid Brooks, who had to be removed from the field on a stretcher. Like Dave Brown, I am simply not that accurate (especially throwing into swirling winds) and I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt. It's about time somebody did, Jeff.I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, but if it does, be heartened by the knowledge that Sunday offers a chance for renewal. The Chargers will be in town, without Junior Seau, and there is no snow in the forecast. If you can scrounge up a ticket, consider yourself cordially invited to our tailgate near 10C.I'll see you there, Jeff. Beers are on me.
Sincerely,
Weinstein_______________________________________________________________________________* = In case you're curious, Jeff, there are 112 different Jeffrey Langes on Facebook. And can you believe how old Jessica Lange got?** = Except The Old Man, who does not partake in shenanigans.Lange photo by Bill Kostroun, Associated Press. - Oct 31, 09
Giants Stadium, I'm wont to imagine, is dying before my eyes. Game by game, tribute by tribute, it is passing into the past.
But it isn't really dying so much as it's being euthanized. In 2009, it's the Logan 5 of stadiums, running at top speed towards forced obsolescence despite remaining, on its surface, vital and spirited. By Spring it will be a parking lot, but for now and for the remainder of the season, it's home.
At 2009 tailgates, the future rises against the sky. It’s already shiny. And huge. And triple awesome, says the PSL brochure. I’m sure it is, and on some level I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not ready to say goodbye to Giants Stadium so fast. Not when there’s still a chance—5 chances, at minimum—to wring some more magic from its old bones.
Ah, who am I kidding? Old bones? Giants Stadium is a year younger than I am. If after 33 years Giants Stadium has outlived its usefulness, does that mean it’s time to take me up Mount Ubasuteyama as well? And if so, how should that make The Old Man feel? He was nearly that age when they first opened the joint.
Each week, the legends of the franchise are returning to pay their last respects. Some of them, like Frank Gifford and Andy Robustelli, never played a down here. Others, like George Martin and Harry Carson, had already established permanent residence by the time Lawrence Taylor was busy making Giants Stadium his playground. But they all come back. Bob Tucker and John Mendenhall. Joe Morris and Rodney Hampton. Leonard Marshall and Mark Bavaro. They all want to feel the Hawk whip across their cheek one more time because each of them knows what's at stake when we lose this place.
But there are losses and there are losses. On the field, the losses the Giants have sustained the past two weeks have proven true yet again the axiom that the NFL is a week-to-week league. After three games, the local tabloids were all suggesting the possibility of a Giants vs. Jets Super Bowl. Two weeks later, after the Jets crashed to earth, the talk turned to that of a potential “Manning Bowl.” Now, after two consecutive losses, the Giants suddenly face a “must win” game at arch-rival Philadelphia. They’ve dropped like a stone in most power rankings. National columnists are questioning their lack of a quality win. What a difference a week or two makes.
These losses have also led the knee-jerk contingent among the Giants fanbase to declare that the sky is falling. It isn't, of course. But soon, the upper deck in Giants Stadium will fall. It will be followed by the mezzanine, then the lower level. When they hear the sickening creak as the building’s final beams collapse, Giants fans will learn the difference between loss and loss.
This is the lesson we all have to learn eventually, of course, the hard lesson of "The Ball Poem." Once the stadium is gone we’ll be left with no choice but to move on, to accept its finality. It will live on in our memories only. Some glorious. Some infamous. Some personal. When we lose Giants Stadium, we’ll also be losing part of ourselves. But how does one mourn such a loss?
Last year I sat by and watched some of my blolleagues attempt to eulogize Shea Stadium in its final days, with varying degrees of success. Shea, however, was different. While it retained a certain sense of dilapidated charm in the hearts of the diehards, it was in the end a stadium on life support. A stadium that truly had outlived its usefulness. But Giants Stadium? Giants Stadium is, from my perspective, as vibrant today as it ever was. Beyond that, it’s become my treehouse, that place where I can go to get away from it all in the company of 80,000 mostly anonymous friends. My initials, along with thousands of others, adorn its still sturdy trunk. Aside from it being short a few luxury boxes, why would anyone want to tear a place like that down? A place that has brought so many people together. A place where the ghosts of Wellington Mara and Brad Van Pelt are as much of a presence as those swirling winds are. A place that stands as a physical link between generations.
Could it be the Giants 53% winning percentage in the building?
A wise friend from the Met-blogging ranks counseled me back in the Spring to take this season as it comes to me, to let it unfold naturally. I've been trying my best to heed his advice, to follow Warren Zevon's lead and "enjoy every sandwich," but it's not easy sitting in seats that are already for sale. And it's never easy to watch a ticking clock, especially when you know it's attached to a bomb.
I'm doing what I can, though, trying to take it one game at a time like the players and coaches are so fond of saying. I feel fortunate to have this year to celebrate Giants Stadium's final season, to take my 7-year-old nephew to a game as well as my wife, who is pregnant with our first child. That child will only know the new stadium as home, which is weird for me. But like CitiField did, I'm sure it will grow on me. Perhaps my child will pen an ode like this thirty-something years from now after forming his own emotional attachment to the giant flying saucer next door. One day, that new, state-of-the-art facility rising in the parking lot will itself be perceived as obsolete and be replaced by an even greater monstrosity. This will, of course, be characterized as progress by those who stand to profit from it most. By then, a personal seat license will likely run one the cost of a house today and surely pitched to fans as a sound investment. But I imagine that my investment in the Giants then, like now, will transcend economics.
At the beginning of the season, New York magazine's Will Leitch wrote that "no one cries for the Meadowlands. Fond reminiscences of the old Giants Stadium," he continued, "are nowhere to be found." The words angered me when I first read them, before I realized that they were 100% accurate. That made me angrier. But make no mistake, Giants fans, the death of Giants Stadium is a tragedy. And an utterly avoidable one.
It may not settle in until next season, when the suits move in. And with them their wine, cheese and entitlement. The gameday experience will never be the same. So I implore you all to appreciate this facility while you still can. There’s still 5 games left to play, and If we get lucky we’ll be rewarded with another home game or two come January. The Giants would like nothing more than to give the Stadium the send-off it deserves, and so should you.
The wrecking ball can wait, friends. Trust me. There's no need to report to Carrousel 'til springtime.
Enjoy the run. - Feb 02, 10I posted about a month ago about the release of Robert D. Siegel's Big Fan, a thoroughly engrossing film about the obsessive and illogical nature of sports fandom. Starring Patton Oswalt in his first dramatic lead role, Kevin Corrigan, Marcia Jean Kurtz and Michael Rapaport as "Philadelphia Phil," Big Fan is a film with which I both identified and which cut a bit too close to my Giants-obsessed bones. Shining a spotlight on the bewildering, oft-unreciprocated devotion fans like Siegel's protagonist, Paul Aufiero, and I show to our beloved New York Giants, the film begs the question, why do we care so much?It's not a question that's easily answered, and fortunately for viewers of Big Fan, Siegel doesn't attempt to answer it. Jerry Seinfeld once aptly pointed out that sports fans are ultimately just rooting for laundry. Kissing Suzy Kolber's Drew Magary took the observation a step further when, after learning that his favorite team was on the verge of signing Brett Favre, he opined that loving a sports team is "a thoughtless, irrational, singularly idiotic pursuit." Both Seinfeld and Magary have a point, of course, but that doesn't stop either of them from rooting for their Mets and Vikings, respectively. Both are able to acknowledge their own lunacy (or, in my case, bluenacy) while remaining simultaneously enraptured by it, and they're able to do so because they understand that the idiocy of investing oneself emotionally in the outcomes of sporting events is part of the bargain. In fact, it's part of the appeal. Love was not designed to be reasonable.Still, Siegel's Aufiero (Oswalt) takes his unwavering allegiance to Big Blue to an unnerving extreme. His actions reveal a man who, in his detachment from reality, loves the New York Giants more than he loves himself. This caused some literary-leaning reviewers to draw comparisons between Big Fan and Frederick Exley's cult masterwork, A Fan's Notes. But while there are some similarities between the film and the 1968 William Faulkner Award recipient, they are only superficial. Acutely aware of and tormented by his failure, Exley fantasized about admonishing his hero, Frank Gifford, by shouting at him that "life isn't all a goddam football game! You won't always get the girl! Life is rejection and pain and loss." Aufiero, on the other hand, uses football to shield himself from the pain of rejection, loss, and failure. To him, life truly is all a football game.What isn’t clear, though, is why. And while this is a question that's left unanswered (intentionally) in the film, Rob Siegel was kind enough to answer it (and a few others as well) for the readers of this humble blog. What follows below is my recent interview with Big Fan's writer/director, unedited and in its entirety.* * *
MW: To begin, I've read that you hail from Long Island and attended the University of Michigan. Me, too. I graduated from U of M in 1997. Did you ever meet anybody while growing up on L.I. or when going to U of M that had a Paul Aufiero-like dedication to a team? Is Paul based on anyone?RS: I can't say I've ever met anybody exactly like Paul. He's kind of a composite of guys I heard listening to sports radio. As a kid, I used to listen to WFAN a lot, especially Steve Somers. He was my favorite. And the conversations you used to hear on there tended to be fairly intelligent, reasoned back-and-forth discourse. As sports radio goes, WFAN is pretty high quality. But then, when I went away to college, I couldn't get WFAN, so I'd listen to other radio shows, like the nationally syndicated ESPN-type stuff. The vibe was different, more chest-thumping in tone. Those shows were more like what I have in the movie, where people are calling up and just basically ranting, delivering these testosterone-driven monologues that sound like some pro wrestler talking about how they're gonna kick their opponent's ass. So even though the movie was inspired by FAN, it's modeled more after the Jim Rome-ish type stuff.MW: To me, more than anything, Big Fan felt like a film about the people who inhabit the strange world of sports radio. Like you, I grew up listening to WFAN all the time (Steve Somers was always my favorite, too), so in a way Paul Aufiero as a character was familiar to me. He's a type, cut from a similar cloth as regular callers like "Jerome from Manhattan," "Doris from RegoPark," "John from Sandy Hook," "Bruce from Bayside," "Short Al from Brooklyn," and "Miriam from Forest Hills." Like Paul, these people all use WFAN's airwaves to help compensate for some sort of personal shortcoming. The difference between these callers and Paul lies in the severity of that shortcoming. Miriam is blind. Doris (R.I.P.) suffered from the same disease that afflicted the Elephant Man. Jerome suffers from epilepsy and various other illnesses. But Paul? Paul's just a guy who, for some reason, is unable to cope with adult life. He's insulated himself in a childlike state of being, under NFL bedsheets, but it is not clear why. The film's climactic scene suggests that perhaps Paul had been the target of bullies in his youth ("You didn't have to be so mean", he says to Philadelphia Phil) but it's not overtly stated. So I guess what I'm wondering is why Paul is in the state that he's in. Why does he refuse to accept the norms of adulthood? And how do the Giants and/or sports radio fit into that?RS: You're right--I never make it clear what the hole is in Paul's life that he's trying to fill. I didn't think it was necessary to. Viewers can fill in the blank with whatever they imagine. As for the "You didn't have to be so mean" line, I think of that as referring to the sports radio culture he's a part of. Sports radio can, at its worst, be a really angry, hostile place. And it's one Paul enthusiastically takes part in; he's one of these mean people he's complaining about. Sports radio is a lot like the blogosphere--the anonymity of the Internet frees people up to be really nasty to each other and let loose with their most vicious impulses. The tone of discourse on the web tends to be really angry, even more than on sports radio. It's just men taking on these angry personas and saying things they'd never say to somebody's face in their real lives. I guess it's cathartic.
MW: On a related note, I found it curious that nobody else in Paul's family is a Giants fan. In fact, it doesn't appear that any of them cares about football at all. Fandom, especially extreme fandom, is often the result of breeding (so to speak). It's generational. Fathers and sons. Brothers. Family bonding over a shared experience. But Paul's brother is not a Giants fan. And there is never any mention in the film of Paul's father. So where does his loyalty to the Giants come from? What is the origin of his fandom? Was there a defining moment in his life, perhaps in his youth, that made him this way? That made him so psychotically loyal to a bunch of strangers dressed in blue?
RS: It's never explained in the movie, but I always imagined that his father, now deceased, was the one who got him into the Giants. This was something they bonded over. But I don't even think his dad necessarily needed to be into football for him to catch the bug. I'm a huge football fan, and I definitely didn't get it from my dad or anybody else in my family. I'm the only Siegel who's into football. I really don't know where it came from. I just remember watching the 1979 Super Bowl between the Steelers and Rams and falling in love. That was it. I was a Steelers fan for life.
MW: One of the things I like best about the film was that it rings of authenticity, right down to using the actual names of players (except for Bishop). The scenes in which Paul and his buddy watch games are spot on. That's the way fans watch games. They fidget nervously. They pace. They yell. They carry on. It's very visceral. And it was a nice touch to use a real sports jock like Scott Farrell (though I would have preferred a local voice). The sports bar scene is 100% realistic (but was that close-up shot of the Flyers scoring on the Islanders really necessary?) That said, there was one little nit-picky thing about the film that bothered me. And that, quite simply, is that Paul doesn't talk like an Italian dude from Staten Island. His brother does. His best friend does. His mother does. Why doesn’t Paul?
RS: I'll give you a very simple answer: Patton couldn't do a New York accent. He tried during the first few days of the shoot, but it kept coming out like a Boston accent. Like "Jacobs runs up the middle for 19 yahds!" I made the decision to scrap the accent and just have Patton use his own voice. No accent is better than a bad accent. A bad accent can ruin an entire movie. - Sep 15, 09There were many highlights in the Giants opening week win over Washington, most notably the incredible strip/fumble recovery/touchdown by Osi Umenyiora and the exemplary individual effort exhibited by Mario Manningham on his first NFL touchdown. But while wins are always great, especially against a division rival, those of you who watched the game on television likely missed the afternoon's ultimate highlight.
At halftime, the Giants brought out something in the neighborhood of 80 former players spanning six decades, honoring them in a short ceremony to commemorate the final year of Giants Stadium and to acknowledge the 8 year anniversary of the tragedies of 9/11. Proving that Wellington Mara's "once a Giant, always a Giant" philosophy still holds true, it was a remarkable turnout and an amazing (and incredibly rare) assemblage of talent.
The Old Man seemed to get a kick out of seeing "wilderness years" old timers like Tucker Frederickson, Aaron Thomas, Bob Tucker, and John Mendenhall out there. And I felt privileged to get a glimpse at true legends like Andy Robustelli and Frank Gifford (pictured left), 83 and 79 years old respectively, lined up alongside heroes of my youth, Harry Carson, Rodney Hampton, and Leonard Marshall. It didn't even matter that L.T. and Phil Simms couldn't make it, because Stephen Baker could. And Karl Nelson. And Fred Dryer, and dozens of other Giants, stars and scrubs alike.
Would you believe I even cheered Chris Calloway?
After the ceremony, the players walked back down into the tunnel near the endzone where our seats have been located since the stadium opened. A few seconds later, though, Gifford re-emerged. Still possessed of the charm that once made him a matinee idol, The near octogenarian jogged gingerly over to the corner of the field, where a group of soldiers were gathered along the wall. Without fanfare or a swarm of paparazzi, or being prodded by a publicist, he approached each soldier individually, looked them in the eye, shook his/her hand, and offered each his sincere thanks (and an autograph).
It was a small gesture that speaks to the man's enduring character. It clearly wasn't for show. Though old #16 never served in the military himself, his best friend and teammate, the late Charley Conerly, fought in the Battle of Guam and Gifford has an immense respect for the uniformed servicemen who put their lives on the line to protect our freedom. Seeing him take time out to personally thank those soldiers was, for me, an unusually moving experience.
Following Gifford's cue, Hampton and Super Bowl XXV hero Ottis Anderson came back out of the tunnel and did the same. Theirs was a similarly touching gesture.
On a day in which the 2009 Giants outclassed a division rival, the Giants Alumni exhibited a significant measure of class as well. None of the beat reporters seemed to notice, and if they did, they didn't write about it (in fact, I haven't seen a single word about the halftime ceremony in any publication). And something tells me that's just fine with Giff, Rodney and Ottis. - Sep 14, 09You may (or may not) have noticed that Bluenatic looks rather different than it did the last time you surfed over here. That's because I did a semi redesign over the weekend, prompted by the promise of a new football season and some insightful feedback regarding the color scheme I'd been employing (dark background, white letters) and width of the main column (unnecessarily narrow).
This redesign is a work-in-progress, though, so if you should have any ideas about how I can improve the design to make it more reader friendly, please leave those ideas in the comments.
Thanks. - Sep 14, 09It seems that with lone exception of Sporting News, every preseason magazine, blog, TV pundit and sports radio host in America is convinced that the Giants can't make it to the Super Bowl this season without a true #1 (or go-to) receiver. Most of them have cited how the Giants lost 4 of their last 5 games (including the playoffs) and struggled to score points last season after Plaxico Burress exited the lineup. But while these doubters are looking at recent past performance as an indicator of what to expect in 2009, they would also do well to take a look back at some history.
The 2009 Giants, like many championship teams of the past, are built around a great defense and a dominant running game. These hallmarks of smashmouth football are what led the Giants to titles after the 1986, 1990 and 2007 seasons. In recent years, they are also what propelled teams like the '00 Ravens, '02 Buccaneers, '01, '03 & '04 Patriots and the '05 & '08 Steelers to Lombardi trophies.
In 1986, arguably the greatest season in franchise history, the Giants didn't have a single wide receiver top 31 receptions in the regular season. Their #1 wideout, statistically speaking, was Bobby Johnson, an undrafted third-year player who totaled one catch for 15 yards in the entire postseason that year. Johnson, of course, is most famous for hauling in Phil Simms' pass on fourth and seventeen at the Metrodome that season, but it is notable that his 31 receptions, 534 yards and 5 touchdown grabs were all team highs among the 1986 Giants wide receiving corps.Do you remember who the Giants leading receiver was in Super Bowl XXI in Pasadena? No? Why it was none other than Stacy Robinson (pictured at the top of this post) a young, second-year player of North Dakota State whose 48 career catches spread across 6 NFL seasons were 9 less than a fellow young, second-year player, Steve Smith, registered last season. Lionel Manuel (3-43-0) and Phil McConkey (2-50-1) also got in on the action in Pasadena that day, as the Giants offense scored 39 points en route to their first Super Bowl championship. Would even the most ardent Giants fan argue that Robinson, Manuel, McConkey, or Johnson was a #1 receiver?To be fair, the Giants #1 receiver in 1986 (and, it could be reasonably argued, 1990) was Mark Bavaro, who that year became the first and last Giants tight end to gain 1,000 yards in a season. Bavaro's 66 receptions from the tight end position were twice that of the Giants second leading receiver, fullback Tony Galbreath, those 99 combined receptions a strong indication that the Giants ball control-oriented rushing attack produced a lot of manageable third and shorts for Simms & Co.
In 1990, when the Giants returned to the Super Bowl (again powered by a strong running game and overpowering defense), they were again led in receptions by Bavaro and a running back (David Meggett). Stephen "The Touchdown Maker" Baker (26-541-4) and former first-round pick Mark Ingram (26-499-5) tied for the lead among wide receivers with 26 receptions apiece. In the Super Bowl against Buffalo that year, both Baker and Ingram made career-defining plays when the Giants needed them most, but let's not fool ourselves into believing that either player was ever a true #1 receiver. They weren't.
Instead, Baker and Ingram were key cogs in an offensive machine just efficient enough to keep the chains moving, the clock winding, and the Giants defense fresh. They made plays when they had to, but they were not game-breakers. The only game-breakers the 1990 Giants had, with the possible exception of Meggett, were on defense. And that was fine. For all the talk of "stretching the field" and "keeping the defense honest," the Giants simply lined up and ran the ball down its opponents' throats. Three yards here. Four yards there. A short pass on third down. It got the job done.
Even in 2007, when the Giants actually had a true #1 wideout in Burress (his performance in Green Bay was positively Ricean) it was the unsung receivers who came up big in the Super Bowl when the game was on the line. Sure, Burress caught the game-winning pass, but the Giants never would have been in a position to make that play had it not been for the contributions of Kevin Boss, Steve Smith, and David Tyree.
Boss' 45-yard catch and run on the first play of the fourth quarter was, many believe, the turning point of the game. Steve Smith's 12-yard reception along the sideline on 3rd and 11 with 45 seconds remaining gave the Giants a much needed first down and clock-stoppage, and put the Giants in a position to take that shot at the end zone on the next play. And Tyree? Do I really need to explain Tyree's contributions that evening?
All of this is just a roundabout way of trying to say that football is a team game, and that it takes a team to win a Super Bowl--not individual superstars, especially at the wide receiver position. Despite their best combined efforts, all-world wideouts Randy Moss, Terrell Owens, Cris Carter and Tim Brown own zero championship rings. Lesser-light Troy Brown, on the other hand, owns three. I never said it was fair, but it is what it is.
And the Giants are what they are, too. In their 6th season under Tom Coughlin they know exactly who they are and what they're capable of. They've got one of the best offensive lines in the NFL and, even with the loss of Derrick Ward to free agency, an outstanding running game with Brandon Jacobs and Ahmad Bradshaw (and Madison Hedgecock) leading the way. They've got a reliable if not exactly spectacular tight end in Boss, whose 6 touchdown receptions was fourth best among NFL tight ends in 2008, and a group of young wide receivers eager to prove that they can consistently make plays at the NFL level. Add all that to a sack-happy defense with a front four that's 8 deep, and you have a team that looks to be as good as any other in the National Football League in 2009. With or without a true # 1 receiver.
- Sep 14, 09As the Giants prepare to face the Jets for the 41st consecutive preseason tomorrow night (they are 18-21-1 in the previous 40 contests), I figured I'd drop this quick post to remind you that writer/director Robert Siegel's Big Fan opens today (Fri. 8/28) in New York and Philadelphia.
I did a short write-up about the film back in July, but here's another link to the trailer.
In short, Big Fan is the intense story of Paul Aufiero (Patton Oswalt), an obsessed Giants fan whose violent run-in with his favorite player (the fictional linebacker Quantrell Bishop) brings his entire world crashing down around him.
In the wake of the Plaxico Burress fiasco, the film's pivotal scene cuts chillingly close to the bone, so it will be interesting to see how the Giants organization responds to it. In a recent interview with Deadspin, Siegel (The Wrestler) told Sarah Schorno that he did not seek (or need) permission from the Giants or the NFL to use the team's name, trademarks, or stadium as a backdrop in the film, and that the filmmakers have "no formal relationship with the team." Though former Giants tight end Howard Cross has cooperated with the filmmakers by participating in a few Q&As, Giants VP of Communications Pat Hanlon told me this morning that to his knowledge, nobody in the organization has seen the film. That would, I assume, include linebacker Jonathan Goff, who shares a number (54) and position with the fictional Bishop.
In today's New York Times, Mahnola Dargis writes that Big Fan is an "agreeably low-key and modest film" that "avoids sentimentality without abandoning sentiment." Those are words rarely, if ever, used to describe--for lack of a better phrase--sports films.
To my knowledge, Big Fan is the first feature film since Warner Bros' atrocious 1972 adaptation of Fred Exley's masterpiece, A Fan's Notes, in which the New York Giants are featured in any kind of prominent way.
As an official partner of the film I'll be screening it over the weekend and likely posting a review. I'm also working to arrange a short interview w/ Siegel, who like me is a native Long Islander and graduate of the University of Michigan. So stay tuned for updates on that. - Sep 14, 09Hi! I'm Mark Weinstein. You might remember me as the guy who writes 4,000-word odes to mostly forgotten ex-Giants like Charley Conerly and Rodney Hampton. Or as the guy who once kind of had a radio show. Some of you might even remember me as the fellow who released three albums nobody has ever listened to. Or as the guy who's spent the past 10 years helping to realize other people's dreams.
What you probably don't remember me as, though, is as a writer of books. And the reason for that is because up until about a month ago, I wasn't one. Believe me, as an editor I've had to rewrite more books than I'd care to admit, and my name has appeared in the acknowledgments of more than a hundred Timeless Works of Literature (TWOL). But until the book pictured above came off press back in June, I'd never before had my name appear on a book's front cover.
Examining the photo you might notice that I am only listed as a co-writer on the project, and that I do not earn top-billing. That's true, and entirely justified. I penned only 5 of the book's 30 chapters, the others written by "Mr. Stats," himself, Elliott Kalb. So it's not so much my book as it is a book I contributed to (and edited). Gotta start somewhere.
In The 30 Greatest Sports Conspiracy Theories of All Time, Kalb and I examine the most notable conspiracies in sports history, from Major League Baseball, the NFL, NBA, NHL, NCAA, to the Olympics, NASCAR, the horse track and the prize ring. Separating fact from myth, we attempt to determine which of these long-held conspiracy theories hold water, and which ones fall flat under scrutiny.
The five conspiracies I tackle in my chapters are:
#26: Did UNLV throw the 1991 NCAA semi-final game against Duke?
#27: Was ironman Cal Ripken's 2001 All-Star game home run a set-up?
#28 & #29: (Double conspiracy!): Did the New England Patriots, with an assist from the NFL, cheat their way to a dynasty?
#30: Did Chinese Olympic hero Liu Xiang fake an injury at the 2008 Beijing Games?
You might be surprised by the answers to these questions. And the only way to learn the answers is to buy the book. Or borrow it from your public library. Or beg me for one. Or steal a copy.
This post isn't all self-promotion, either. There's a Giants angle, too, as chapter #10 deals with the scandal surrounding the 1946 NFL championship game, before which two Giants (quarterback Frank Filchock and back Merle Hapes) were accused of conspiring with gamblers.
Taking that into consideration, as well as how I've selflessly used this blog to help promote books by both Ralph Vacchiano (my acquisition) and Murray Greenberg (not mine) in the past, I hope that you will forgive this rare bit of self-promotion. If not, I apologize. More Giants (and Mets) posts are forthcoming. I promise.
Carry on, now.
Edit 8/11/09: Newsday's Neil Best offers a nice mini-review on his Watchdog blog, referencing my Newsday-carrying past. - Mar 25, 10The wife and I stopped by Economy Candy again on Saturday. Nestled on Rivington Street in the shadow of the new, ultra-modern $500-a-night hotel across the street, Economy Candy (Est. 1937) is one of the last remaining holdouts against the sad, hipster-fueled gentrification of New York's Lower East Side.
Stepping into the place is like stepping back in time. The store is stocked floor-to-ceiling with a dizzying selection of hard-to-find sweets that you likely haven't seen since childhood, and it never fails to transport me to a time in my life when all it took to make me happy was a fresh pouch of Big League Chew and some Fun Dip.
I stop in there whenever I'm nearby, which is often. I live within walking distance of the store. But I confess that the reason I frequent Economy Candy isn't just so I can load up on candy buttons, Pop Rocks, and bubblegum cigarettes. That's certainly a part of it, but beyond all the wax lips, candy necklaces and collectible Pez dispensers, there's something else about the place that keeps me coming back. Mostly, I come back for the old baseball cards.
Yes, Economy Candy has stacks and stacks of unopened wax packs of 1988 and 1989 (and occasionally 1987) Topps baseball cards for sale, reasonably priced at a buck a pop. 1988 and 1989 were years I spent actively collecting and taking great delight in baseball cards (there are tens of thousands of them stuffed in closets back at my folks' house), and purchasing a few packs from time to time these days helps me recapture, if only for a moment, some of that old joy. There are few thrills in adult life that can match the experience of opening up a wax pack, setting aside the gum, breaking and flipping the turned-over half of the cards at the "special offer" insert, and then carefully thumbing one's way through each of the pack's 15 cards in search of one's heroes. Or, as the estimable Josh Wilker calls them, one's cardboard gods.
As a 13-year old in 1988, my cardboard gods were always New York Mets. And then, much like now, I had to flip past a lot of Fred Manriques and Moose Stubings before I got to a Mookie Wilson. Even when I found a Met, I always seemed to find more Barry Lyonses and Jeff Innises than I did Keith Hernandezes. And that was fine. If you wanted a Keith Hernandez you had to earn a Keith Hernandez. You had to ride your bike to the stationery store a bunch of times. You had to spend your hard-earned allowance ($2 a week, for me). You had to open a lot of wax packs. That's what made the discovery of a Keith Hernandez all the more special.
That's also what made Saturday so incredible. Standing on the sidewalk under Economy Candy's firetruck red awning I opened what very well might be, from this 34-year-old Mets fan's perspective, the single greatest wax pack of 1988 Topps baseball cards ever sealed in Duryea, Pennsylvania. Of the 15 cards, 7 pictured current, former or future Mets.
The pack contained:
• A Roger McDowell, inventor of the Hotfoot.
• A Kevin Mitchell (in a Giants uniform) who, as a rookie, singled and scored the game-tying run in the greatest inning in New York Mets history.
• A Nolan Ryan (In an Astros uniform) who, as a babyfaced 22-year-old fireballer, won his first and only World Series ring as a member of the 1969 Miracle Mets.
• A Tim Leary (in a Dodgers uniform), who the Mets made the second overall pick in the 1979 Amateur Draft but who won just 4 games in 10 career starts as a Met.
• A Brett Butler (in an Indians uniform), who would spend 90 games roaming the Mets outfield in 1995 (hitting .311) before being traded to the Dodgers for two players who would never reach the majors.
None of those cards are what made this the greatest pack ever, though. Neither is the Gary Matthews (1973 NL Rookie of the Year), the Graig Nettles (six-time All-Star), the Bo Diaz (strangest athlete death on record) or the Dennis "Oil Can" Boyd, who gave up six runs (including a leadoff home run to Lenny Dykstra) in a Game 3 loss to the Mets in the 1986 World Series.
Forget those cards. They don't matter in the slightest.
No. The real reason why this was the greatest pack ever is because it contained both a Darryl Strawberry and a Dwight Gooden.
I'm not kidding. Doc and Darryl. In the same pack.
If I had opened this pack in 1988, it's entirely possible that I might have shit myself. Both players were still in their respective primes in 1988, in true All-Star form. That was the year Darryl hit the roof in Montreal on Opening Day and ended up leading the league in home runs, slugging percentage and OPS (and getting robbed of the NL MVP award). Doc won 18 games and made the All-Star team for the fourth time that year. They were just two years removed from a world championship, came close to reaching the World Series again, and in New York (and my neighborhood) they were like gods. Not just cardboard gods, mind you, but actual diamond deities deserving of worship. I had a life-sized poster of Strawberry on my closet door. A few feet down the wall, next to Lawrence Taylor, hung Doc's iconic Sports Illustrated poster.
Doc and Darryl never came in the same pack. Ever. You had a better chance of getting three Tom Nietos than getting both a Darryl and a Doc. Getting them in the same pack of cards would be like winning twice on the same scratch-off lottery ticket. Or like catching two keepers with one worm. It just didn't happen. At least not to me.
But 21 years later, as I stood under Economy Candy's awning shielding myself from the hot afternoon sun, there they were, just three cards apart. And I'm not at all ashamed to admit that reuniting with them there made my entire weekend.* * *
I'm not one of those Mets fans who laments what might have been with Doc and Darryl. While it's true that they may have accomplished more had they heeded the sage advice printed on Topps' 1988 wax packaging and said no to drugs (and alcohol), I think the whole "Dead End Kids" perception is greatly overblown. Because those kids accomplished plenty.
First of all, they did what no Mets in the past 23 years have been able to do, which is deliver a World Championship to Flushing. The significance of that cannot and should not be understated. While Mets they were also named to a combined 11 National League All-Star teams, and won back-to-back NL Rookie of the Year awards in 1983 and 1984, becoming the last Mets to be so honored.
19 years after he last donned a Mets uniform, Darryl Strawberry is still the franchise's all-time leader in home runs, runs scored, runs batted in, walks, and extra base hits. He's second in total bases. He did all that in just 8 years. Not bad for a guy who never realized his potential.
15 years after last donning the blue and orange, Dwight Gooden still stands as the franchise's all-time leader in winning percentage and fewest home runs allowed per nine innings. If it weren't for a Hall of Fame legend named Tom Seaver, he'd also be the club's all-time leader in wins and strikeouts. Besides Seaver, Gooden is the only New York Met to capture a Cy Young Award, which he did in his phenomenal 1985 campaign. Not too bad for a guy who is believed to have snorted his career away.
While Doc and Darryl have certainly both endured personal setbacks in their lives that affected their baseball careers negatively, I never felt let down by their failures as men. Despite their shortcomings, they still accomplished more than a ton of guys who kept their noses clean and supposedly got the most out of their talent. And today I choose to remember them as they were on their baseball cards. I celebrate them. And while I acknowledge it's sad that for many they will always be remembered for those off the field troubles, all it takes is something like opening a rare pack of baseball cards to remind me how much they meant to me (and other young Mets fans) growing up.
On the field, Darryl and Doc never let me down. And on Saturday, in the midst of one of the most disappointing seasons in recent Mets history, they picked me up again. Together.
- Sep 11, 09You can blame all the injuries if you really want to. It's certainly not easy to win baseball games when three of your four best position players are on the disabled list for an extended period of time.
You can blame the pitching, too. Santana and K-Rod notwithstanding, Mets pitchers have been inconsistent at their best, atrocious at their worst. The injuries to Maine and Putz (and now Nieve) don't help.
You can blame management as well. Or the training/medical staff. Or Jerry Manuel and his coaches. Cases can be made to support blaming all of them.
But it doesn't take a Silver Slugger or Cy Young candidate to catch a pop fly, or to touch third base. It doesn't take an All-Star to make a routine play. It doesn't take a brilliant GM or astute game manager to field a team that looks like it cares out there.
But as Coach Norman Dale so eloquently pointed out in Hoosiers, "This is your team," Mets fans. And unlike the 1952 Hickory Huskers, it doesn't look like Jimmy Chitwood is going to come to the rescue. Beltran, Reyes, and Delgado may not return this season at all. If they do, who knows how effective they'll be? Or how far out of the playoff race the team will have fallen by that point.
After dropping two out of three to the worst team in baseball, today, mercifully, is an off day for the New York Metropolitans. That means, theoretically, that they can't humiliate themselves again until tomorrow.
I guess that's a start. - Sep 14, 09It's not set for release until August 28th, but here's the trailer for writer/director Robert D. Siegel's Big Fan, the intense story of an obsessed New York Giants fan whose violent run-in with his favorite player (the fictional linebacker Quantrell Bishop) brings his entire world crashing down around him.
Big Fan marks the directorial debut of Siegel, the writer of last year's excellent The Wrestler. It stars comedian Patton Oswalt (as toll-collector Paul Aufiero) in his first dramatic lead, with Kevin Corrigan (rocking the classic Starter™ jacket above), Michael Rapaport and Marcia Jean Kurtz as Aufiero's mother. No mention in the press materials of there being any cameos from actual Giants players or coaches, though.
The film has been a big hit on the festival circuit and has been receiving excellent critical notices (from The New York Times, Los Angeles Times, and Rolling Stone, among others). Locally, it's only set to play at Angelika Film Center, but more theaters are likely to pick it up as well.
I wonder what linebacker Jonathan Goff, #54, thinks about this?
Edit 7/24: Turns out there are, um, two more reasons to go see Big Fan.
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Tweets
- I see that @MarkHerzlich sold a memoir. Good for him. Now let's see if he can win the starting middle linebacker job.May 22, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
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- RT @AlexQaddafisPG: The Press copies of "Qaddafi's Point Guard" came in. God is good. @RodaleBooks can't wait until the release date. http:…May 21, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- What does the NYCFC announcement mean for the @TheNYCosmos and their stadium hopes?May 21, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- I'm in favor of what @drewmagary proposed. Fantasy scoring. RT @ProFootballTalk NFL considers making Pro Bowl "more like a game show"
- The @nytimes asks: should the basketball rim be raised? And @EarlThePearl_15 answers: absolutely. http://t.co/m48DCyOjYTMay 21, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- "You have to have faith in whatever" - My aunt, 5 minutes ago #wordstoliveby
- Louis Armstrong singing "Sunrise, Sunset" = Mind blown
- RT @AlexQaddafisPG: Met one of my idols last night at his book signing at madison square. NBA legend Earl"The Pearl"Monroe. @RodaleBooks h…
- @pubrelationprof Collaborator successfully captures Monroe's authentic voice. Colloquial style is intentional.
- Remember those scenes from Annie Hall where Alvy visits LA? I'm re-living them this morning. #Strangerinastrangeland
- Just arrived in Los Angeles for the first time since 1997. It's on.
- Saddened to learn today of the untimely passing of literary agent John Ware, a true champion of narrative nonfiction: http://t.co/dygWcsewJqMay 16, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- Just got my hands on a copy of Kinetic Golf. @NICKBRADLEYGOLF appears to be some sort of insane genius. A most unusual golf instructional.May 15, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- There's a reprint of a wonderful, lengthy 1993 interview w/ Roger Angell over at @AlexBelth's Bronx Banter today: http://t.co/7eqc6cVHm7May 15, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- 22 former Giants on @caplannfl's list of best available NFL free agents. Offense: http://t.co/u8qUrHC3gb; Defense: http://t.co/MThnZEcV9ZMay 15, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
- Ben Hogan's mystery caddie from his stunning 1950 US Open victory at Merion finally identified: http://t.co/1awAePDkXO
- The Pacers are just clearly a better team than the Knicks right now. I'm not even mad about it. You just tip your cap and keep it moving.
- Happy pub day to John Andrisani & Hogan On The Green. This is a book that can truly help golfers lower their scores: http://t.co/bSGg51G5DkMay 14, 13 from web Reply, Retweet, Favorite
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Posts
Destiny does not always tap the most obvious shoulder when she hits you with a road map, which might explain why [Charlie] Conerly was in the shower one day after practice when the guy from WCBS called. Conerly was Summerall’s roommate for as long as the two played for the football Giants. “Tell Charlie to be ready,” the guy from WCBS said.
“I will,” Summerall said.
“Tell him and Alex (Webster) and Kyle (Rote) that the audition is at 2 p.m.”
“I will,” Summerall said.
“And, hey, you’ve got a pretty good voice, yourself. You come, too. What did you say your name was?”
Of course, Summerall got the job — the first fortuitous step on the way toward a second career that would make him even more famous.
Jerry Izenberg, Newark Star-Ledger, 4/17/13An old friend of mine spotted this vintage New York Arrows poster in a Manhattan barbershop. Amazing.
When you’re writing long stories, involved stories—stories that feel like a real investment—your editor has to wear so many hats to help get you through. My editors are filters, reporting coaches, therapists, cheerleaders, sounding boards, hecklers, and apparitions in my sleep. They’re also plain old editors. And I need editing. I want to be edited. I think if you aspire in your writing, if you’re striving for something, then you almost always will go too far and need someone to bring you back.
Chris Jones, in conversation with Thomas Lake, Ben Montgomery and Matt Tullis at Creative NonfictionIf I have the nerve, if I have real nerve, Rocky should die at the end of the third film. I was originally thinking in more grandiose terms—the Coliseum and everything—but ‘Rocky III’ should end with more than a fight. It should end with Rocky’s life coming full cycle, The way I imagine it, after the fight, he’s riding home in a cab, with the roar of the people chanting ‘Rocky!’ still in his ears. And he just drops over dead. In other words, he has achieved everything possible and he dies when he’s on top. I don’t think people want to see Rocky when he’s 80. I don’t know if I’ll go with that ending, and him dying. But I know I’ll have to film it. I’ll have to shoot it for myself, whether or not I use it.
Sylvester Stallone, in an interview with Roger Ebert, 1980.Sometimes, during commercials, I would sneak a peek around that bar, at the other regulars gazing upon their teams, the abject gleam in their eyes. And in those moments I could see the tender truth nestled within each of us. We weren’t rooting for our teams. We were rooting for ourselves.
Steve Almond, from his New York Times Magazine story, “Why Does Anyone Root for Incompetent, Failing Teams”, 8/26/12The one that makes me laugh the hardest - I remember going on a press junket. A limo was sent to my house. When I went to leave my apartment, my door knob literally fell off my door. It was in my hand. I was wearing these expensive clothes I bought for shit like this press junket, clothes someone else instructed me to buy so I would look decent, clothes I felt completely uncomfortable and fake in. I was about to head outside to a limo, so I could go give canned answers that were coached to me for a bunch of press outlets that couldn’t have cared less. And I was holding my door knob in my hand, and I couldn’t figure out how to reattach it. The door would not open. So I had to climb out my bedroom window, past my unframed Morrissey poster, and down my fire escape. I thought I was going to slip and break my neck and get more press for dying after getting my big break but before it actually debuted. I somehow didn’t kill myself - which is a miracle considering that I trip and fall just from walking almost every day - and dropped down into the area behind my house where we threw all the trash. I picked myself up, made sure none of my trash or the trash of any of the dozens of Hispanic families who lived in my building was stuck to my shitty fancy fake clothes, and I got into the limo. And I laughed about it the whole way there - I wasn’t really the guy in the nice clothes. I was about to give hundreds of interviews, and not one of the people who ever saw or read anything in any of those interviews would know that less than an hour earlier I was legit rolling around in a giant pile of garbage. I wasn’t a sitcom star - I was still the sad sack with the ridiculous life who had to leap into his own garbage pile to get into the limo some assholes had rented for him.
Chris Gethard, from his post The Chase is the Thing and the Thing is the ChaseI’m in the best shape I’ve ever been. Ask any of the guys in the camp, I’m stronger than I’ve ever been, I’m faster than I’ve ever been. I could run all day. I’m kind of like a black unicorn out there. It’s amazing to watch. You go out there and you see a big, black guy running down the field, it’s usually me. So I’m pretty good out there. It’s been great so far.
New York Giants Tight End Martellus Bennett, in response to a question from ESPN New York’s Ohm YoungmisukSkull repurposed from outdated computer books by Maskull Laserre (via Colossal Art & Design)
The Olympics, as an event, aren’t sports, at least not in the way die-hard sports fans have become accustomed to consuming them over the last 10 years, essentially the Internet age. I don’t think the Olympics are aimed at sports fans. You know how regular drinkers refer to New Year’s Eve as “amateur night,” or how computer nerds mock their parents who can’t figure out their iPhones? I think that’s how hardcore sports fans — the sort of die-hards whose social calendars revolve around the sports schedule, the loyalist sorts who make up the backbone of the American sports experience — see the Olympics. They’re sports for people who are only kinda into sports.
You know who won the Super Bowl, you know who the world champions are. Whether we’re on the front page every day or not, it’s not that important. New Yorkers know.
Tom Coughlin, 3/28/12It’s just a subject—Cleveland sports—about which I feel the kind of passion that I don’t really feel about almost anything. I don’t mean my family. But my relationship to those teams defines me in the same way that being a Jew defines me or being a man defines me. It’s at a profound level.
Scott Raab, author of The Whore of Akron, on his intense relationship to Cleveland’s sports teams, in a terrific, sprawling interview with Alex Belth on Alex’s Bronx Banter blog.I would like to know how the Giants continually manage to unearth monster pass rushers. The number of elite pass rushers they’ve managed to draft is fucking insane: LT, Strahan, Osi, Tuck, JPP, etc. There are franchises that go decades without unearthing that kind of pass rushing talent, and yet the Giants seem to produce a new measty pass rusher every other year. They should draft NOTHING but defensive ends from now on, and then concoct a defense that consists of eleven long-armed quarterback mutilators.
Drew Magary, from his Deadspin Jamboroo column, 12/15/11.For the 3 people who might get this joke, Jason Garrett’s facepalm Sunday night was merely an homage to Gus Sands.
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