06 October, 2008

Category Archives: Football

The Importance of Being a January Baby

Chris Bourque, Mathieu Perreault, and John Carlson all enjoyed standout training camps with the Washington Capitals this month. Bourque is still enjoying his. To slightly varying degrees, all three enjoyed prodigy player status early on in their hockey careers. On a hunch, I checked their respective birth dates. All three share the birth month of January. What’s the importance of that in a hockey player’s development? To listen to the view of one of hockey’s most learned and thoughtful commentators on the matter, it’s just about everything.

Hall of Fame netminder and celebrated author Ken Dryden, in his superb overview of hockey’s hold in his homeland, Home Game, notes that in Canada, a hockey player’s birthday is virtually determinative of his development:

“The [development] system rewards those parents who are able to time a pregnancy to begin in the spring and come to its happy fruition in the early months of the new year. Hockey registration, you see, goes by the calendar year, and each child born in a given year is considered the same age for purposes of setting age limits. Yet a child born, say, on Wayne Gretzky’s birthday of January 26 is likely to be a better player on the first day of hockey tryouts than a player born on December 25 of the same year. The January child is almost a year older, a year stronger and more mature. At age six or seven this represents an enormous advantage, the January child being nearly one-sixth or one-seventh older . . .

“The older child has the best chance to be the first star of the game, to develop a star’s skills and attitude and expectations of success. The younger child — smaller, weaker — must first learn to cope and later, when the age difference matters less (for example, at fourteen the same January child is only one-fourteenth older), he is often unable to undo his and others’ expectations, reprogram himself, put to one side his coping skills for a star’s skills, and become a star. The same situation and problem exists, of course, in the schools.

“If streaming came at a later age, the effect of birthdates would be largely outgrown. But streaming comes early in hockey.”

And, Dryden claims, streaming in hockey is destiny.

“From age nine onward,” he writes, “better players get streamed into competitive teams, and the competitive teams get the better coaches and more ice time . . . the gap between the mediocre nine-year-old and the gifted nine-year-old begins to widen, and widen fast. In Canadian minor hockey in the late 1980s, if you don’t make it by age nine, you likely won’t make it at all.”

Not quite Darwinian, is it? Or is it? At this point, you’re probably wondering, do Canadian (and Minnesotan) (and Scandinavian) families actually so family plan? Were the question put to Dryden, I’m rather sure he’d answer, “Not if, but in what volume?”

Next I decided to check birthdays for some high profile hockey stars — specifically, those residing in the 500 NHL goals scored club. The results were startling. Limiting my search just to those who’ve scored 500 goals and were born in January and February, these names loom large: Gretz; Bobby Hull; Phil Esposito; Mike Bossy; Mark Messier; Frank Mahovlich; Peter Bondra; Brendan Shanahan; Jeremy Roenick; Lanny McDonald; Joey Mullen; Dino Ciccarelli; Jaromir Jagr.

Blackhawks’ coach Denis Savard hovers just a bit outside of 500 goals scored in his career, but he was born in February. Were I to have broadened my search to include births in the first quarter of the calendar year, the list would have expanded appreciably — Gordie Howe, for instance, was born in the first week of March in 1928.

Now, you don’t want to get carried away with the intriguing pattern of hockey family planning, because in truth studs and stars are born in all 12 months of the calendar. Alexander Ovechkin, for instance, is a September baby. Mario Lemieux was born in October. One of the greatest skaters the game has even seen, Gilbert Perreault, was born in November. Sergei Fedorov arrived as an early delivery from Santa’s sleigh (December).

But Dryden’s observations are so illuminating precisely because hockey streams as it does and because relative to other youth sports, vital skill sets in hockey (including cognitive and emotional accumen) seem to take root in player development so early . . . partly, Dryden would argue (I think), because of the streaming. Baseball and soccer, for instance, hold their respective tryouts in the spring, rendering the calendar inconsequential to the physical and emotional maturity of youth registrants in those sports.

Football, interestingly enough, registers players in the final season of the calendar, like hockey, but perhaps partly because tackle football really is a high school endeavor for most pigskinners, little that is determinative in a player’s development occurs on the gridiron at the age of seven, eight or nine. Or twelve, for that matter: football talent evaluators typically hone in on kids when they’re high school juniors and seniors and have just begun to immerse themselves in the weight room. And really, it’s only after a couple of years of college football that players earn the status of pro prospect.

It’s none of our business, of course, but it is fun to wonder: did Ray and Mrs. Bourque consider father’s own development arc in Canadian minor hockey early on as they started their family, or did they merely get swept up in a particularly schmaltzy movie on Lifetime one chilly March night twenty-some-odd years ago?

Cupcakes and Hockey - Never the Twain Shall Meet

The Washington Capitals are in what many hockey pundits brand as the weakest division in the NHL. Despite the fact that two of the past four Stanley Cup champs are Southeast denizens, never have more than two Southeast teams made the playoffs in a given year. In four of the nine seasons since the Southeast sprang to life, only the division winner made the post-season.

Every sport has a “SouthLeast” equivalent, some division perceived as soft . . . though as pro sport parity increases such distinctions are fading. Even so, these divisions are not inherently bad for the sport, nor for the fans. Sometimes, as was the case last NHL season, a division perceived as weak can provide the most compelling competition during the race to the playoffs.

The NFL’s NFC West may very well send an 8-8 team to the post-season this year — and the fact that the Arizona Cardinals currently sit alone in first place (even after just one week) is, if I recall correctly, the third sign of the Apocalypse — yet that division race will likely come down to the wire with games that still have playoff implications in Week 17.

Major League Baseball’s National League West may yield a .500 division winner in 2008, yet the race between the Dodgers and Diamondbacks is a tightly contested one and likely to remain so as the season’s end approaches. Last year the Colorado Rockies’ improbable run captured the attention of fans and media alike. In 2006 that same division showcased an exciting down-to-the-wire regular-season finale, as the Padres and Dodgers battled for the division crown.

Winners of these weaker divisions often find new life in the post-season; they are by no means one-and-done by default. While the Capitals have yet go from Southeast Division Champs to the Cup (it’s coming, though), their division-mates in Carolina and Tampa hoisted the Cup despite being “mired” in the Southeast. The NFC West’s Seattle Seahawks lost a close (if boring) Super Bowl just 19 months ago. The NFC North has been weak for a while too, yet the Chicago Bears were the only team to record a win in February 2006.

The pros and cons of divisional weakness are certainly up for debate; yet they are nothing when compared to the NCAA football factory schools. While professional clubs choose neither their schedules nor their division — for if they did, the Patrick Division would still exist — big Division I-A football programs frequently bake up cupcake schedules.

Looks great, but leaves a bad taste in your mouth

Looks great, but leaves a bad taste in your mouth

Articles appear each year about powerhouse programs padding their seasons with underpowered opponents, and about schools that somehow arrange 7 or 8 home games in a 12-game schedule. Yes, the little schools benefit financially from their on-field beat-downs, and the resulting name recognition often helps their programs (bad press is better than no press). But one can be certain that the I-As aren’t scheduling said opponents altruistically; rather, they want a blowout win to impress fans, donors, and the BCS.

Of course, it occasionally backfires when the intended palooka doesn’t follow the script and upsets the heavy favorite (Appalachian State and ECU spring to mind); then the cupcakes become “just desserts.” Some might say that the trend of the patsy teams fighting hard and winning — or, like my I-AA alma mater Delaware, losing but scaring the bejeezus out of Maryland in College Park— might make teams decide that the appeal of lower-skilled opponents is outweighed the risk of an embarassing loss. That is a possibility; but I think we’ll see schools simply schedule even further down the talent ladder to find that easy W.

With such a short season, an easy victory over a lightly-considered opponent can harm the winning team by fooling young players into thinking the season will be a cakewalk. This issue is less prevalent among seasoned professionals, 99% of whom know how hard one must work every shift, every down, just to compete as a pro. But at the college level, where players are just learning that their high school prowess won’t guarantee success in the NCAA, a no-effort win often leads to a stunning loss the following week. And yes, West Virginia, your 48-21 shellacking of Villanova (I-AA) followed by stumbling to ECU 24-3 the following week is a terrific example.

So say what you will about the Southeast Division, or about divisions perceived as weak in any pro sport. A soft division can lead to exciting finishes; and even when it does not, the teams do not choose their opponents so one can hardly blame a dominant team in a division of also-rans. Finally, playing weaker opponents in the pros does not harm the development of players who, for the most part, already understand that taking a game off will come back to haunt them.

Division I-A football schools serving cupcakes as opponents? No thanks, I’ll skip dessert . . . give me the Southeast Platter instead.

An End Zone Outrage

Hanna’s howling deluge confining us as it did Saturday, I was glued to the slate of televised college pigskin. Actually, I’m that way under fair-weather skies on autumn Saturdays. The BYU-Washington game was a nail-biter, with a heroic ending engineered by Huskie’s QB Jake Locker. He dove into the end zone with 2 seconds left to draw his underdog team within a point of the 15th-ranked Cougars. He tossed the football over his shoulder — hardly an ostentatious display of exuberance or showmanship — and immediately embraced his gleeful teammates. The zebras working the game, however, would have none of that, and they flagged Locker for unsportsmanlike conduct: 15 yards tacked on the Huskie extra point try.

It was blocked. Game over. Just like that. Really, it was one of the most outrageous endings to a football game I can recall. ESPN’s Lou Holtz afterward noted that not only was an afterthought extra point made comparatively dramatic from 35 yards, but the penalty also removed any notion of the underdogs potentially going for a game-winning, two-point conversion from inside the BYU 5-yard line. As screwjobs go, this zebra crew seriously botched it. In their incompetence they kinda reminded me of NHL referees.

It’s true that for a least a decade, end zones in college and pro football have degenerated into antics alleys, veritable discotheques of delirium. In the place of authentic, organic celebrations executed with spontaneity and free of assaults on sportsmanship, orchestrated showboating has become routine, with the triumphant often elaborately demeaning their bettered opponents. It was also Holtz I believe who told his Notre Dame players years ago to act like they’d been in the end zone before when they scored, but too few contemporary players did, and so the powers that be acted in the NCAA. But in reacting (much too belatedly) with seeming judgement-free severity to the matter, the NCAA has adopted a throw the baby out with the bath water approach to tampering down taunting. And in the case of Saturday’s officiating crew in Washington, they just lost their minds.

And so in a sense football on Saturday reaped what it has sewed for some years.

But beyond the drop-your-beer-in-disbelief reaction to the Huskies and Cougars’ outcome, what interests me most about it is that what happened Saturday in Washington could never happen in hockey, and that’s a good thing. Our game suffers not from silly showboating but perhaps excessive modesty. From Sweden (or Manitoba) with dignity, call it. That is a good thing.

You see, hockey has a code about showing up an opponent. Celebrate your tally a little too exuberantly, and an elbow sandwich (or worse) follows not long after. But it’s also the case that hockey players generally do not seek individualized expression of euphoria. Perhaps that’s because the game requires the contributions of virtually all of a team’s players on the ice to author success. Notwithstanding the rare end-to-end, unassisted tally, the player who scores in hockey raises his arms in triumph’s recognition and instinctively turns to seek out his teammates who helped make it happen.

Which leads me to reflect a bit on the manner in which Alexander Ovechkin celebrates many of his goals. That is exuberant! But it’s not showboating, is it? It is genuine and infectious and joyous to watch and it is outreach to, an engagement with, the fans in attendance. We wouldn’t want every NHL player copying Alex’s patented leap into the plexiglass, but we’re thrilled with the boyish joy and non-taunting manner in which he carries it off.

He leaps, he lands, and then his smile stretches from Washington to Moscow as he is enveloped in his teammates’ collective embrace. He almost seems to scream with joy as well (I think he does). And then he makes his way to the Capitals’ bench to share the moment with the rest of the team. It’s about as beautiful to behold as many of his goals themselves.

But Saturday’s tragedy in college football offers us in hockey a moment to reflect on opportunities to upgrade our officiating. And God knows we need that. As much as player conditioning, training,  commitment, and general skills have improved in hockey over the past 20 years, is it your sense that the officiating has improved in commensurate fashion? Are game officials comparably better skaters than their peers of 20 years ago, for instance? That isn’t my sense. That’s food for thought.

But I’d also like to see some public accountability for officials night in and night out in the NHL. We don’t have that now. Members of the media determine three stars of the game each night; I’d like to see them also offer up some manner of evaluation of the men in stripes. They don’t have a dog in the fight, after all.

This evaluation would be included in the official game sheet. The league (allegedly) conducts its own audit of each officiating crew, but those results are never made public, and what I’m looking for is public accountability — an evaluative act that serves as a symbol of hockey being a watchdog against egregiously poor officiating.

Sort of like those small newspapers that still publish the names of community members cited for public intoxication.

The State of the Washington Sports Union, August 2008

We who find succor and solace in the refrigerated mustiness of rinks do enjoy the occasional night out at the old ballyard, and last night, amid yet another stunner in this greatest-ever weather in the history of Washington Augusts, two hockey bloggers enjoyed that experience at Nationals Stadium. Despite the on-field product offered there. The Sporting News’ Eric McErlain and I cracked open roasted peanuts, occasionally followed yet another Nats’ mauling, and did what two sports-loving friends do best in one another’s company: survey and solve Washington’s sports’ problems over a few beers.

Creative and caring about our home though we be, we may not be able to aid these present Nats. There is rebuilding and then there is this team: godawful, and embarrassingly non-competitive. There were no delusions about this team flirting with mediocrity this season, I don’t think, but Nats’ ownership and management, I also think, had some level of obligation to assemble something remotely attractive in this the maiden season of baseball in Washington’s beautiful new ballpark. The final last night was Mets 12, Nats goose egg.

When the Capitals were rebuilding they were rather surprisingly competitive, and even fun to support. Having Ovechkin certainly helped, but there were other heart-and-soul types to rally around, and even on the toughest of nights two seasons ago one could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

There are two jewel ballparks separated by about 40 miles in our region, and both most nights are half empty (or worse). It’s not so good. Last night was for all intents and purposes a road game for the home Nats, there were so many Mets’ caps and jerseys outfitted on patrons. I moved past souvenir stand after souvenir stand with lone workers in each conspicuously inactive. The baseball product here now, despite its gorgeous, sparkling new home, isn’t selling. And in such conditions, beleaguered franchises acquire the parasitic, preponderant presence of enemy fanbases.

There was as well conspicuous youth to last night’s “crowd”: offices that months ago had purchased blocks of Nats’ tickets have surrendered them, night after failing night, to summer interns and the teenage children of associates. On pretty summer nights for them it is better than hanging out at the mall.

Then there is the television dilemma: even family members of the Nationals aren’t following at home.

No one affiliated with the Nats now ought to be proud, and a revolutionary redrawing of the master plan (such as it is) ought to be well underway.

That ought to include, high on the list, re-pricing seats behind home plate to get some volume of humanity seated in them. Bad baseball is one thing; craven greed showcased with it is appalling. Put another way: the new stadium, funded as it is with bonds, can’t endure many more summers like this one.

Meanwhile, interestingly enough, across town the Capitals were hosting a third open house for hundreds of new ticket plan purchasers. A funny thing has happened to hockey here just since last fall: tickets are becoming scarce. (It would wise for Yahoo’s Ross McKeon to take in one of these open houses at the Phone Booth.) An OFBer was there last night, and around about the 4th inning I received a text relaying how few Verizon Center seats were tagged as available for the 08-’09 season. Almost certainly the Caps are holding back some seats for walkup sales, but it’s become abundantly clear that SportsWashington is investing with their wallets in this team what they did with their fashion red last spring.

Bank on this, too: media for the team’s training camp next month will blow away anything and everything that’s preceded it, including Jaromir Jagr’s first camp here. Gustafsson — father and son — will be in attendance. The hardward-hauling greatest hockey player on earth will daily hold court. There’ll be a bit of interest in the performance of the camp’s netminders.

The Wiz made news this summer by inking all of their name free agents — the ones who’ve guided them to annual first-round failures. More importantly for Capitals’ fans, the hoops and arena owner looks increasingly frail in his few public appearances.

McErlain last night shared with me a terrifically insightful assessment of the standing of the Burgundy and Gold here. “They’ve more of a college football hold on the region,” he said. It’s absolutely true. The Skins are to D.C. what the Cornhuskers are to all of Nebraska, what the Buckeyes are to Ohio and the Wolverines are to Michigan: quasi religious.

Not everybody wants to go to church on Sunday, however.

Bettman’s Apocalypse - A Distraction from Hockeyless Summer

As July winds down and August draws near, hockey fans everywhere are itching for the NHL to return. This time of hockey drought is difficult; sure, a few storylines remain, like Mats Sundin (the NHL’s version of the Brett Favre saga) and for Washington Capitals fans the team’s salary cap management decisions. But this is undoubtedly a period of minimal hockey excitement; we even designed a Washington Capitals’ third jersey to fill this hockey-light time.

Well Puck Daddy’s Gary Bettman Art Contest is another such welcome distraction from the withering heat of hockey-less summer. Our entry was inspired by Colonel Kurtz and “the horror . . . the horror” of Bettman’s tenure as NHL commissioner. If you are Photoshop-inclined, the submission deadline is noon tomorrow (August 1). Have fun!

Gary Bettman - Apocalypse Now (mock-up by Mike Rucki)

Devin Thomas, Profile in Courage

OFB wishes a speedy recovery to Redskins’ rookie wide receiver Devin Thomas, who was carted off the training camp field this week with a strained hamstring.

No timetable has been established for his return.

We presume that Capitals’ center Boyd Gordon is well mended from his own groin injury — he competed in the Stanley Cup playoffs this spring with a torn groin.

NFL Preseason: Stupid Is as Stupid Does

I confess I’ve never understood the length, breadth, and brutality of the NFL preseason. With athletes in all sports — including intercollegiate ones — now training year-round, the practice by pro football of spending a month-and-a-half-plus in helmets and pads, beating each other’s brains out, out in summer’s worst heat, strikes me as nothing short of insane.

The topic is salient as the Redskins, already underwhelming most observers with their 2008 prospects, and guided by a new coach who’s never coached before — (they may well finish last in their division) — lost one of their most important players on defense on the very first play of practice on the very first day of training camp yesterday. For the season. Later in the day, they lost another defensive end, also for the season, a reserve, who ruptured his achilles tendon. One might be inclined to chalk this up to really bad luck, except that as NFL preseasons have lengthened and intensified most especially in the last 10 years, as players once sized for the defensive line now roam at safety, and as linebackers now run not much slower than wideouts, the triage has multiplied. More NFL players, including front-liners, are certain to go down over the next six weeks — they always do. And the NFL doesn’t care.

In a very real sense contemporary pro football has become a game of brutal attrition. It’s positively preposterous to try and forecast a season ahead before first figuring out who survives all the way through August.

Phillip Daniels is a 12-year NFL veteran. In taking reps (well, one, anyway) yesterday with the ‘Skins, he was preparing for a season opener more than 45 days away. What in the world are the Redskins — and the rest of the NFL — doing scheduling such stress and duress?

I’m not the only one wondering about this madness.

Indicting the sport most might be its collegiate counterpart: without a single “preseason” game the NCAA pigskinners seem to open up with high-value heart-stoppers each and every Labor Day weekend. Consider too that unlike the collegians, NFLers have no limit on the amount of hours they can put in in a week training, studying film, and participating in offseason “mini-camps” and “voluntary workouts,” which of course are voluntary in name only. I think the Redskins have about a half dozen of those throughout the calendar now. By virtue of the commitment NFLers make around the calendar to their profession, there’s just no defense for the prolonged training camps of today.

One of the reasons the camp injuries are as dire as they annually are is because the camps are contested in extreme conditions — high heat and humidity. You also now have hundreds of three-hundred-plus-pounders competing in them, and you don’t have to be a cardiologist to know that those folks generally don’t prosper exercising in extreme heat. With their heads encased in oven-like shells.

Once upon a time, the NFL started training camps in August, conducted its season, which ended in January, and then spent late winter and spring and early summer healing up. And the football played then was rather good; some, like me, thought it better than today’s.

Today there is no offseason, in the NFL or really in any other sport, so why start the head-bashing, knee-destroying, and tendon-rupturing while embers from the 4th of July are still aglow?

All teams play a minimum of four preseason games, and starters are expected to play nearly a half of each game because . . . teams charge regular season prices for the ghoulish meat grinder-slaughterfests. I don’t doubt that a healthy majority of NFL clubs have lobbied the league office over the years to try and get the preseason shortened — motivated by a basic sense of survival. But now we’re getting to the heart of the matter: season tickets owners in Washington don’t have the option of not spending hundreds more on the meaningless slate of exhibitions. And the hundreds more on parking.

And always the games are atrocious to watch. Even if you hate baseball you should watch it instead of the NFL’s July and August dreck.

I’m not ignorant about football players needing their “reps.” And I realize that a handful of rookies need to be evaluated in game-like situations. But given the gazillions the NFL spends evaluating college players year-round, and in combines and such, you can’t make the argument that teams need half a summer to evaluate their new personnel. Or that grizzled vets need months’ worth of reps in triple-digit temps.

The NHL with its preseason has actually taken an alternative strategy with that of the NFL, and shortened it in recent years. Teams will commence camp in mid-September and have just three weeks of training and exhibitions before the arrival of opening week. Talk to any NHL manager and he’ll tell you that his players will show up in mid-September in shape and ready to skate. We can quibble over whether the preseason should extend more than 5 games, but it’s clear that the NHL, unlike the NFL, isn’t motivated by negligent and malicious greed, for hardly anyone attends NHL exhibition games. And by virtue of having a viable feeder development league in the ‘A,’ with annual promotions for virtually every club from it, hockey’s exhibitions are defensible events as auditions of the up-and coming.

Moreover, hockey clubs aren’t obligated to dress their stars — Ovechkin might skate two of the September games, for instance.

It’s really striking when you consider how relatively blessed the NHL is when it comes to being able to dress, durably, its stars from opening night on through the postseason. It’s a fierce and rugged sport to be sure, but it’s managed by men who care about the welfare of their charges and enact training schedules to protect them.

Morning Cup-a-Spirit: This Bigotry Against Babes, I Won’t Stand for It!

To read the reactions left only here related to the Caps’ plans, announced over the weekend, to introduce SpiritBabes to the team’s home games next season, you’d think management announced that Verizon Center was hosting 41 brothels next winter.

It’s too warm in there for brothels anyway.

Would that the peasants took up pitchforks and torches in these numbers when the league bleep-canned hockey jerseys for Reebok’s tuxedo vests a year ago.

Count me among those with a more inclusive spirit — one who will approach the scheme with an open mind. I take the owner at his word (”I am a family man with a wife and daughter“).

I was all prepared to write about my first one-on-one chat with Hershey Bears’ head coach Bob Woods on Saturday when this fracas broke out later that day. No wonder Washington is consistently regarded as a sex-appeal-less city.

In reality, though, all the NHL is doing is catching up — modestly, I might add — with football’s spirited sidelines. Or Fox News. In a culture of seriously foxy FoxNews, is this really anything to get all that worked up about?

But by late yesterday we’d received pointed clarification from the Capitals on the matter: “The squad won’t be ice girls in the traditional sense . . . It’s also not a dance squad, a la the NBA. It’s more of an evolution of the entertainment team we have had in the past” [the one that most in the stands thought was remarkably annoying -- I'm all for evolving that].

Still, I found it riotously funny to learn that Bruce Cassidy had contacted the team’s sales department Sunday seeking a full plan for next season. And Smoken Al Koken — has he been revived since Saturday’s news?

Actually, you can make a compelling argument I think that hockey, particularly in markets like Washington, is much more in need of some sultry spirit than is the NFL. Mr. Leonsis, in defending the move on Sunday, noted that it was with new revenue in mind that the team pursued the idea. In case you hadn’t noticed, television ain’t exactly throwing mad dough at the NHL’s 30 clubs these days. Meanwhile, the league’s salary cap has mushroom-clouded by more than $15 million in just the three seasons since the lockout.

It’s swell that we’re all in love with this rockin’ garage band called hockey, but the band still has to be paid, and if Hooters-Lite (not Hustler) wants to underwrite the Friday night jam session, I think the beer will still taste cold. Count me as one who wants a hockey team’s practices, scrimmages, and camps to remain free and open to the public, year round.

Anyone remember the millions the NHL spent on its post-lockout relaunch television advertisements — you remember the ones, the “My NHL” spots featuring the hockey locker room beefcake, rather shirtless, massage-motivated by a Fox News anchor in the pre-game? I remember thinking the first time I watched it, ‘My, how shirtless this hockey player is, and my, how little I now want lunch.’ Now that was profane, and brought to you by Bettman & Co. I’m confident that Ted doesn’t have quite that in mind.

I’m not sure what revenue the Washington Redskins’ cheerleaders bring in to the team, but whenever they make community appearances you seldom hear of Puritanical protests accompanying them or of anyone having a real lousy time at them. In fact, once in a while, the tight end marries the babe. Maybe the SpiritBabe will marry the bachelor blogger.

The Capitals, and hockey in Washington, need increased exposure (if you’ll pardon my word choice). If the Caps’ SpiritBabes are going to be out and about town during and after seasons hence, perhaps toting along a few congenial players with them, it’s bound to improve the team’s visibility, as well as that of the sport.

And in our recessionary times, where is the acknowledgment of the idea’s job creation ???

There’s been all manner of hyperbole associated with this past weekend’s high-pitched hue and cry reaction. For instance, some have alleged that the aisle ladies in their shimmer and shake will distract from the play on the ice. On nights when the Caps lay an egg, I agree — and let’s hope so. On those nights especially I’ll be glad for Verizon Center’s new state-of-the-art, high-rise, high definition, center ice scoreboard. But really, if the Alexanders are barreling down the ice on a two-on-one scoring chance, how many men’s and women’s eyes will be fixated on tight fannies in the stands?

And what of the selectivity of outrage in this instance? When it’s Mites on Ice, all are quiet, despite the fact that with that exhibition the laughter is generated at the expense of really, really short people. But raise the specter of pretty girls prettying up the District’s rink, and all hell breaks loose.

The only genuine harm that can come from this scheme is if, to quote the wit of one of the few in this town with a sense of humor, who imparted it in the maelstrom of message board madness yesterday, “they come down to the Johnny Walker Club after the game and are attracted to out-of-shape middle-aged men.”

When Messrs. Vogel, Parker, Rucki and I were taking in the World Championships in Moscow in the spring of 2007, we had no shortage of aisle-jiggling accompanying our blogging endeavors (see photo above). I think I can speak for the four of us in saying that we got our work done just dandy. In point of fact, the real distraction in terms of Moscow hotties diverting our gaze came with the middle-of-the-night trollop parade through our hotel’s lobby (where we were blog drafting), aided and abetted by bellhops on the cash take.

Baltic beauties in boas and hip-high black boots. Naughty, naughty Nikitas! Sorry, that was the indulgence of reverie.

Anyway, over in Moscow, we learned that NHL scouts were in favor of off-ice girls.

!

Perhaps since Alexander Ovechkin has to spend the next 13 seasons skating here we should let him be the arbiter in the matter.

The Ashburn Diaries, Winter 2008

Morning Cup-A-JoeLike the Capitals recently, the Redskins find themselves in search of a successor coach. Any and all similarity of operations ends there. What is ensuing now in the Great Search is, predictably, high burlesque, a lavish local sports soap opera.  

The Capitals had both a qualified general manager and an appropriately removed-from-hockey-decisions owner involved in their search. The Redskins have neither. There is no foundation for believing that a genuinely gifted hockey mind available on the market wouldn’t have entertained an overture from George McPhee to guide the bench of the young and gifted Caps. But the Capitals’ coaching search was efficient and painless and apparently successful precisely because there was in place a plan of succession. Such planning is the byproduct of business competence. There is abundant reason to believe that Tier I coaching choices won’t return Daniel Synder’s telephone calls. Snyder, like a pornographer, runs a successful business by the barometer of profitability margins.     

The general manager’s role in contemporary professional sports, I’ve written before, has evolved remarkably in the past 15 or 20 years, with law schools today clogged with aspiring pro sports executives. We in Washington this past summer, with the Michael Nylander Edmonton-D.C. dust-up, saw first-hand the value of having an executive law trained in a matter of contracts and negotiations. What is it about Daniel Snyder that innoculates him from local press criticism for failing to staff the Redskins with this most basic and increasingly important business role? Clearly, Joe Gibbs’ rerun on the sidelines purchased the owner some years of deferred scrutiny on this front, but with his dismissal of Charlie Casserly years prior, it became standard operating procedure for the boy owner to seat himself in the role of talent evaluator and contract negotiator. The results speak for themselves.

I got a good chuckle from the early replacement speculation stories with their inclusion of Bill Cower’s name. As if such an accomplished coach would deign work for our egomaniacal, control freak tyrant. Notice his name hasn’t been uttered since. Caller ID no doubt ended that courtship. The linear chronology of the search is a bit sketchy, and my suspicion is that this is premised on the Skins’ themselves floating out star quality falsehoods. The architect of the collegiate dynasty out West, Pete Carroll, allegedly surfaced not long after Cower. Yeah, right.

Here’s a list of plausible replacements for the Cerrato-Synder two-(empty)-headed monster to cull from:

Tyronne Willingham;

Wayne Fontes;

NFL interns;

Whoever’s coaching DeMatha — maybe.

The latest, if you believe local press accounts, involves the Mooch, Steve Mariucci. At least he has late ’90s compentency on his CV. His more recent run with the Lions went such that no one’s bothered to ask him to coach since. Now we’re back in plausibility.

The discrepancy in paychecks notwithstanding, one wonders if WaPost’s Jason LaConfora these days pines for the integrity and veracity associated with his old Caps’ beat.

At least in the blogosphere, Snyder is on the receiving end of enough criticism that some of it borders on unfair. He is not, for instance, singularly responsible for Metro’s malfeasance. But at a time when all major college football programs are voraciously recruiting wide receivers 6 ‘2 or taller, the Redskins of recent seasons have insisted on signing smurfs. As with his coaching nostalgia, Snyder is still living in the ’80s. In an Era of the Tall, guess who thinks it’s wise to go small?

Another relic of the ’80s is Danny’s right-hand Yes Man, Vinny Cerrato. His most notable accomplishment prior to arriving in Ashburn? Coordinating the recruiting of 17- and 18-year-olds for Lou Holtz’s Fighting Irish . . . in the ’80s.  

This spring, as college juniors and seniors audition at NFL combines in front of scores of talent evaluators who’ve paid their dues, and are held accountable for their decision-making, it’s necessarily the case that Snyder and Cerrato will be perched hard by the likes of Bill Belichick. That’s a fair showdown of pigskin wits.

In this winter of mild Mid-Atlantic temps, and with his Good Shepherd returned to his NASCAR flock, Daniel Snyder is, perhaps at last, dangerously exposed. He’s the Oz in front of the Burgundy curtain. And an in-kind fraud. 

  

Training Camp for Washington Sports Editors

Morning Cup-A-JoeNear 8:00 this past Saturday night, Washington’s mainstream sports editors confronted an annual dilemma: the end of another Redskins’ season. Joe Gibbs’ second retirement from football offered our local press horde a brief stay of execution from the Burgundy and Gold beat, but today the harsh reality sets in.

Their dilemma is existential: what now?

To the disappointment of Wizards’ fans, and the horror of Dan Steinberg, Agent Zero recently hinted at the likelihood of shutting it down this season to recover fully from his knee injury. Nats’ pitchers and catchers don’t report south for weeks. We’re many months away from Tiger’s return to town.

Customarily, this season in the D.C. sports calendar dictates that sports editors assign their staff the research and drafting of obituaries for American sports legends solidly on life’s back nine. Long lunches. And vacations.

We at OFB, however, think that with the arrival of Redskin-free Januaries, henceforth and inaugurating with this one, the region’s hockey bloggers, in a joint endeavor with the Washington Capitals, ought to conduct a training camp for MSM sports editors.

To introduce them to the sport of hockey.

In a very real sense, it’d be analogous to the fantasy camps the well-heeled, middle-aged, and portly participate in across all sports. Making no judgment on the physical well being of our MSM editors, it’s abundantly clear that their cognitive acumen with respect to hockey is, shall we say, under exercised. As such, the heart of our camp would feature a fully developed Capitals University for the editors. JoeB is particularly busy at this time of year, but given the claims of this cause, I’d anticipate some creative schedule juggling on his part and ultimately his cooperation.

Orientation would have to start with the most basic of basics: a Mapquest route from WaPost and the various network broadcast studios in the District to Kettler Capitals. Initially, the editors would be picked up and led to the facility by various Caps’ players in a caravan, but as part of a camp final exam, the editors would have to demonstrate their ability to navigate their own way to the Capitals’ new home.

Early on, too, it would imperative to dispel some false assumptions long held by the editors. For instance, on Day One of camp we’d have one of the region’s meteorologists present Dopler data conforming that no reporters covering Caps’ games actually freeze from the experience. Indeed, at Verizon Center, there’s the greater likelihood of visitors suffering heat stroke. It is simply not true that the Caps travel to Saskatchewan to contest their games outdoors December through March.

As part of camp, the editors would be taken on field trips to the region’s rinks — Reston, Ft. Dupont, Columbia and Cabin John — where they would be asked to view the thousands of youths, male and female, clogging the weekend clocks morning, noon, and night with the playing of hockey. They would be asked to sit in the rinks’ stands among players’ parents and interview them about families’ devotion — in finances, time, and travel — to the sport of ice hockey. The tongues the hockey families would speak in would be foreign to the editors, and so bloggers and Caps’ communications professionals like Mike Vogel would be strategically stationed in the stands to facilitate translation.

Back at camp, VIP speakers would address the editors. An emissary from the Canadian Embassy would allege that his home is not in fact a 51st American state or territory, but instead a sovereign nation which celebrates the awe-inspiring playgrounds that nature etches across his home’s landscape for half the calendar year. Executives from cable television providers would arrive and testify to the fact that indeed thousands of Washingtonian households spiritedly subscribe to NHL CenterIce and the NHL Network.

High priests of puck like Don Cherry and Barry Melrose would lunch and cocktail hour with the campers and lead chalkboard Xs and Os and endearing narratives of the sport’s legacy. Melrose would even suggest that here in Washington there is a viable Jack Adams candidate.

Craigh Laughlin and Joe Reekie would lead a discussion of conflict resolution in hockey, and how the United Nations Security Council is not involved.

A professor of comparative literature and linguistics from the University of Maryland would attend and identify the sliver of contemporary professional athletes who commonly speak to the press in complete sentences, often thoughtfully. He will introduce the editors to the concepts of humility and modesty that commonly lace these orations.

The District’s Chief of Police would brief the editors on the needlessness of bringing along weapons of self defense into the players’ rooms during interviews.

Necessarily, camp would conclude with a screening of ‘Slapshot,’ and accompanying consumption of beer would be mandatory.

To prepare for camp, we who conduct it might want to view the film ‘300,’ for in this quest we face the same odds for victory as the Spartans.

Is He Really Retired This Time, and Will WaPost Still Cover the New Hampshire Primary Today?

Rocky Balboa / Joe Gibbs
Is Joe Gibbs really retired for good, and will hockey fans in this town read anything beyond game coverage on the Caps in the Post this month?
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All This City-Wide Sports Misery, Its Birthyear was 1993

Cup'pa Joe

Early Sunday evening, keeping an eye on the New England Patriots’ further encroachment on the history books, I thought about being a sports fan in D.C. during a reign of general competent management by a majority of the area’s sports teams, accompanied by general on-field/court/rink winning. Nothing dynastic, mind you, just a generally consistent, healthy dose of winning boasted by most of the teams in town.

These were, necessarily, hypothetical thoughts I was having.

Now consider what the good folks in Boston are enjoying these days. In October the Red Sox won their second World Series in the past four years. The remarkably rebuilt Celtics are serious contenders for the NBA title this season. And the Patriots? Perhaps a perfect season, and heavy favorites to win what would be their fourth Super Bowl title this decade. The Bruins are Beantown’s weak sister, but even they’re five games above .500 this season. It’s an embarassment of sports riches in Beantown.

Meanwhile, here, we have Daniel Synder, the no-name Nats, and really bad ice.

At least we’re getting a nice new stadium next spring.

My Sunday evening thoughts, prompted by envy of New England, centered on this query: precisely when was the arrival of the present sports downturn in D.C., and is there any probable hope for better times in the foreseeable future?

Let’s first stipulate that by virture of the Unholy Trinity of the Hardwood — Abe Pollin, Susan O’Malley, and Wes Unseld — there was no competency to be achieved there, post ‘79. So unlike Boston, we in D.C. couldn’t have all the major sports teams firing on all cylinders. The Bullets-Wiz of the ’80s and ’90s remained Hechingers while the rest of the NBA went Home Depot. But D.C. in the ’80s had the Super Bowl Skins and a couple of 100-pt. Caps’ clubs (who also always made the playoffs). Title-winning Georgetown hoops, too, was quite strong then.

(Being baseball-less until recently, we Washingtonians who sought summer sport had to borrow the O’s, and they, too, won a title in the ’80s (their last), and showcased the superstar shortstop, Cal. Then Peter Angelos arrived and we all had to stop liking them.)

I thought about Joe Gibbs’ sudden, shocking retirement in March 1993, (he pulled a Vermeil) (without the incessant sobbing), and wondered if I might not mark that as the anchor for D.C.’s lodging in the Bermuda Triangle of sports hell. Turns out, 1993 was an infamous year for us here. While Gibbs departed then, leaving the ill-prepared Skins staggering in a leadership void and launching them into 15 years of lousy-to-mediocre coaches, and mostly lousy seasons, one Peter Angelos arrived (via an ambulance he chased) as majority owner of the Orioles. Likely we didn’t realize it at the time, but the descent was on.

March 9, 1998, was a particularly bleak day for D.C. sports: Washington Post Caps’ beat reporter Bob Fachet passed. A legend was lost and soon thereafter hockey, institutionally, incurred nominal — but not professional — coverage by the paper.

Nineteen ninety six was no peach of a year, either. That year the Redskins bid farewell to the NFL’s most charming stadium, RFK — also one of the most intimidating for visiting teams — and took up residence in a place called Raljon (really), an immense, aesthetic-free mausoleum breeding nightmare Beltway traffic, seat licenses, and, eventually, the arrests of spectators who’d dare try and enter Raljon without ponying up an American Express number for parking fees. It was like replacing Jackie Onasis with Britney Spears.

(It would be most interesting to poll Redskin season ticket holders today and ask which they’d have preferred seeing 12 years ago: millions spent adding 20,000 seats and luxury boxes to RFK, as part of D.C. bid for a future summer Olympics hosting, or the super-sized sinkhole in PG County.)

But as malignancies against winning go, we in D.C. were just getting started. Continue reading ›

Roadside Refuse in New England

And a single tear rolls down his cheek

Gimme Shelter (in the Rink)

Cup'pa JoeJust a hunch, but after what we saw Monday in court in Richmond, I suspect we won’t much hear the Baha Men’s “Who Let the Dogs Out?” played over the NFL’s loudspeakers beginning the Sunday after next. (Like I knew who the Baha Men were; ah, Google.) Call this the Knee-jerks of an increasingly disaffected contemporary sports fan.

  • An ESPN Radio personality took to Fox News last night and reported that since the year 2000, more than 300 NFLers have been arrested. More than three hundred. This ESPN personality referred to this state of affairs as the league’s “climate of criminality.” Ya think?
  • Will we need an additional CourtTV channel merely to cover the criminal jurisprudence of the modern, non-hockey-playing pro athlete?
  • It would be interesting to go back in time, to ESPN’s founding year of 1979, and compare a week’s worth of SportsCenter stories then as they related to athlete criminality versus that of about 25 years later.
  • Mark Twain is alleged to have famously said that he wanted to be in Cincinnati on the day the world ended, figuring it would end there considerably later. But what if Twain could have been introduced to the contemporary Cincinnati Bengals, who own their fair share of the more than 300 perp walks? “I want to be in Newark on the day the world ends” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.
  • In the current climate of sports criminality, we can really admit any further discussion of closing Gitmo?
  • On relativity: I’m going to be in the Midwest this Labor Day weekend, keeping an eye on my beloved Fighting Irish footballers. Years back, the then perceived ruffian Miami Hurricanes visited Notre Dame Stadium, and ND students t-shirt marketed the matchup as “Catholics vs. Convicts.” Steve Walsh I believe was the ‘Canes QB then. But beyond being a bit boorish for the times, did the ‘Canes of ‘90 really have anything on the gridiron grossness of today?
  • I have it on reasonably good authority that the NFL’s Security Office employs no small number of successfully recruited, or retired-from-but-still-in-their-prime, FBI personnel. Apparently they are very, very busy in the leadup to the NFL draft. A pro league might do well to hire a Bureau vet to head up its security office, but a veritable army of them?
  • He’d never admit it, but if anyone in America is grateful (in muted fashion) for the current mess in Atlanta and Virginia, it’s David Stern. Doesn’t the Pacers-Pistons brawl of 2004, and all of the talking head tongue wringing it ocassioned, seem like a calamity of about 22 years ago?
  • A generation or so ago pro tennis was plagued by bad actors on its courts, and today it’s known for the comparatively quiet and respectful demeanor of its athletes. I get mildly optimistic thinking about this example. But then I think: there’s a world of difference between Ille Nastase screaming obscenities at a linesman and say a QB electrocuting or hanging canines.

Only God Can Save Baseball in Baltimore

History — of the lurid, malicious, nauseating, revolting, and unfathomable kind — was made at Camden Yards Wednesday afternoon.

Photo by Nick Wass/AP

According to ESPN, Texas’ 30 runs, 27-run victory represent the great smackdown in baseball since 1897. That’s the nineteenth century — two centuries ago. To put the Rangers’ 30 runs in a single game in perspective, if you had Paris Hilton passed out in a frat house of 30 on a Saturday night immediately following mid-term exams, only 29 brothers would score (one or two on average would be gay). Lest you think we’re making up this sordid number, here’s the boxscore.

Just to be clear: it wasn’t the ‘27 Yankees who demolished O’s pitching Wednesday; it was 54-70 Texas.

This will be the Orioles’ 10th consecutive losing season under Peter the Ungreat.

Peter Angelos

Success or failure in a professional sports organization begins at the top; in this regard, Caps’ fans are quite lucky. And with this in mind, Skins’ fans shouldn’t chuckle too vociferously at the O’s mess Wednesday; their band leader is every bit as bad, and likely worse, than the Inner Harbor’s trial lawyer who should himself be on trial.