A Simple Solution

As we start the second half of the 2011 Major League Baseball season, we've seen a record(?) number of first half manager and player ejections with 119 (and a few more over the weekend). Tigers manager Jim Leyland had this to say about the current climate in MLB:

"For some reason, it appears to me that the tension level is much more than it should be between managers, players, coaches and umpires. I know Joe Torre (Major League Baseball's executive vice-president of operations) is trying to get it resolved, but right now the tension seems worse. I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking throughout baseball. I'm not criticizing anybody in particular, but I'm making the point that we all have to work together to resolve this situation because it's getting out of hand." 

Why is everyone so jacked up? First, there are some bad umps like Angel Hernandez who regularly miss calls, causing the wronged team's manager to lose his shit. I also feel like umpires are out of position quite a lot. And of course there are always going to the "bang-bang" plays when the ump has to take a guess. But the real issue is that umpires are under more pressure than they've ever been under before. With high def TV and the networks having every camera angle possible, the viewer can instantly see when an umpire has blown a call. I've heard that arguing managers will tell umpires things like, "Wait till you see the replay. You're gonna look bad." Actually, I heard this from Keith Hernandez during a Mets telecast.

There's Leyland. Arguments could be a thing of the past.

But whether a missed call is an egregious or honest mistake, there's an easy solution. It's so simple that it must have been thought of already. A 5th (or during the playoffs, a 7th) umpire who has both the home and away television feeds and can automatically correct a missed call on the field. We can call him The Overlord. Why do umps have to leave the field to review a tough homerun call? Just let The Overlord handle it. Blown call at first base by a normally reliable umpire that costs a young pitcher a perfect game? The Overlord steps in. He can flash his ruling on the scoreboard. Reviews wouldn't take more than 10 seconds would they? Again, the camera angles, slo-mo, and HD are so good now, you can determine the call in one, maybe two replays. The natural pace of the game allows for these calls to be corrected before the next pitch is thrown. If the call on the field is correct, nothing happens. Look at replays in tennis. They take a few seconds, they're exciting, and they're conclusive. Maybe MLB can borrow some of that technology. In fact, I believe Japanese professional baseball already has. They'd better, since you're allowed to berate the umpire without fear of ejection.

Why can't this work? Seriously, tell me. Unlike the NFL, baseball doesn't manufacture opportunities for ad revenue. That's why the NFL will never improve (shorten) their replay process. So MLB wouldn't lose anything by adopting my idea. And don't even give me the "human element" argument. Isn't that what starts wars? The human element is overrated. Now, I'm going to immediately contradict myself. I don't think things like K-Zone or Pitch Trax should be used to officially determine balls and strikes. I just don't. That really would slow the game down. But most other plays could be reviewed with minimal effect on game time.

Embrace The Overlord.

Tour de France 101

The Tour de France is a 5000 mile bike race across France and some other countries. It started a long time ago and the riders used to smoke cigarettes during the race, but now they drink water. There are approximately 2000 participants, although only a half dozen have a realistic chance to win. The race takes place over three weeks, but the first week is kinda bullshit since all the race courses (called stages) are mostly flat and not too challenging. In the 80's, the Tour was starting to lose popularity when riders started realizing they had no chance to win the thing. So race organizers introduced other little prizes for some of the less talented riders to compete for. 

For example, the rider who maintains the least body hair over the three weeks gets to wear the coveted Pinkish Jersey. In fact, most of the Tour is based around who gets to wear the prettiest shirt, which makes sense since France is a very fashionable place. The riders are split up into different teams with names that have nothing to do with cycling. Teams are usually named after banks, cell phone manufacturers, GPS devices, electronics stores, and ballroom dances. Each team has either one or zero team members who can win. So if you're on one of the teams with a guy who can win, you want to be that guy, otherwise you are called a "domestique" which is French for "sucker who has to work his ass off so someone else can maybe win, but there is no way you will win."

So after the first week of competition (which again, is almost totally meaningless) the Tour reaches the mountain stages. This is when all the phonies who have been kicking ass start to suck, and all the guys who have been sucking start to kick ass. These stages are obviously very challenging, requiring increased fluid intake. Bonus points are awarded for riders who can hit spectators with their empty water bottles. 

The main pack of riders is called the "peloton" which is French for "platoon." It's a great place to be since you can draft, chat with your competitors, even give them a pinch on the hiney. Also, if the peloton consists of 500 riders, the 500th rider gets credited with the same finishing time as the first rider in the peloton. No one ever said the Tour de France is fair. However, this is also where absolutely brutal crashes take place. NASCAR fans love this.

Motorcycles and pedestrians can also compete in The Tour, often with tragic results.

There are a lot of unwritten rules in the Tour. If someone's chain comes off, you have to let them catch back up so they don't cry. You're also allowed to actually hold on to moving cars during the race, but not for too long. So at the end of the three weeks, the rider wearing the Yellow Jersey wins. The sneakiest riders will grab the Yellow Jersey when the guy who has it is sleeping. Also, the Tour is really only 2 weeks and 6 days long, since the last day is only ceremonial, with many riders sipping expensive champagne while riding their bikes up the Champs Elysses, or however you spell it. They change the rules all the time, so see you next year for the updated lesson. Au revior!

The Month of May

This was supposed to be a recap of three magical weekends in May, the last of which was Memorial Day Weekend. Now that was almost two weeks ago, so this whole thing just seems stale to me. This type of thing can happen to lazy-ass bloggers who don't post shit in a timely fashion. What's wrong with me? Maybe that will be the subject of my next post. Could be a long one. Look for it in six weeks. Anyway, here's some old news.

First was my bachelor party in Las Vegas, May 12-15 (some punished themselves by staying through the 16th). This was my third trip to the gambling mecca, but it would go on to provide my first true Vegas experience. Most of us stayed at the Cosmopolitan, which just opened this year. The place is gorgeous and and so is the clientele.  By the time we left, the section of my brain responsible for processing the sight of beautiful women in tight cocktail dresses was completely fried. I became numb to it.

Vegas, when you're partying at a pool or in a club has a feel like no other city I've been to. People relate to each other as if they're sitting together on a roller coaster. You know how if you end up sitting next to a stranger, that person is your best friend for the next two minutes? Vegas is like that all the time. Some of the good vibes can probably be attributed to my status as "the bachelor." Girls loved me.  Anyway, the weekend was insane, and having this particular group of people together is something I'll never forget.

There are some friendly folks in Vegas.

Now, after a weekend like that, there's always going to be an emotional let down. It reminds me of how I felt after seeing Avatar in IMAX 3D. In this case, Vegas is Pandora and everyday life is the movie theater parking lot. It just seems so dull. Luckily, my friends Eric and Lauren were getting married back home in Jersey the following Saturday. They ended up getting the best weather of the weekend, but more importantly, the trip home gave me another big party to look forward to. Besides my own wedding, of course.

Every trip home is incredibly special to me, but this one took on extra importance since I'm not making my usual August trip this year. This four day trip would be it until Christmas, so I had to get my money's worth. Sleep would be minimal. Alcohol consumption would be maximal. Wait, that's the case every time I go home...hmmm. Anyway, the wedding was awesome. There was even a great after-party complete with freestyle rap battles. I want to get into details, because those little things that make home home are what I love the best but I'm not doing that today.

Memorial Day Weekend isn't as special out here in CA as it is at the Jersey Shore. There, summer lasts from Memorial Day until Labor Day and that's it. Mem Day Weekend is a massive kickoff and people really go nuts. The whole area changes. It's not all good, but mostly it is. Here, summer lasts from March until November and Memorial Day Weekend doesn't have quite the same cache. But be that as it may, it was a pretty sick weekend. Plenty of beach and BBQ action. I also shot the best game of pool in my life. I might do a whole post about it, it was that good.

Basketball Jones

It has been unbelievable out here over the past week. Or, when you think about it, totally believable. The weather in southern California varies somewhere between, "I'll tell you what, can use this rain" and "We really should be naked right now." And I am, so I think I'll take the laptop off my lap.   

I did something out of the ordinary the other day. Several times over the last month or so, I've seen this older and I'm guessing, Indian man shooting hoops on our little half court. I only say he's "shooting" because I assume he's trying to get the ball in the basket. He's basically doing a soccer throw-in, just hucking the ball towards the rim. The backboard is covered his dusty ball marks and he only ever makes one with a lucky bank-in. On the bright side, he does have about a thousand offensive rebounds. So when I saw him yesterday, I decided I was going to teach him how to shoot. Whether he liked it or not.

I threw on my sneakers and JV basketball practice jersey, grabbed my ball and headed to the court. We exchanged nods and smiles and he says, "You play too." Uh oh, possible language barrier. "Yep, I'm gonna shoot around a little bit." I replied. "I'm Scott." He didn't understand. Shit. Why am I doing this anyway? I put my hand on my chest and said repeated myself. That did it. "Emmanuel." he said. I put a few up and wondered if I was qualified to teach anyone how to shoot. I don't think he noticed though, since he dribbles with his head down. I'll cover ball handling with him next time. 

Now Emmanuel is probably 60 and has a round, brown, beautiful gut hanging out of his t-shirt. Not a model of fitness like me. When one of his field goal attempts explodes off the glass or front-rim as 90% of them do, this poor guy has a 20-30 foot walk ahead of him which he covers with a slow, waddling gait. I wonder if those walks are sad for him or if he accepts them as the consequence of throwing up bricks. Or in his case, cinder blocks encased with lead. I must have thought he was sad, otherwise I wouldn't be there.


This was quickly justified (in my mind) by the smile I got the first time I got one of his rebounds and saved him that walk. He gave me a relieved "Thank you!" I'd won his heart. Now, for his mind. This was my chance. "I've got a better way for you to shoot. Want to see?" I don't know if he understood me fully, but I think I also mimicked his shooting motion at some point. He came over. We stood in the middle of the lane and I said, "Do like me." Now I was speaking his language. I held my ball straight out in front of me, shoulder high and he did the same. Then I bent my elbow to a 90 degree angle and rotated my wrist until I was in shooting position. He followed my motions relatively well. "Now put your left hand on the other side like this." I shot my ball (swish) and held my follow through, Ewing style, to show him how to finish by "reaching into cookie jar." 


"So it's a one handed shot, and you use your left hand to guide it. Ok?" "Yes, yes." Well I forgot to tell him about using his legs and he completely took his left hand off the ball and as a result his shot fell about two feet short and left of the basket. I corrected both mistakes, but now he adopted more of a shot putting motion. He was still taking his left hand off the ball! This pissed me off a little bit. It's the simplest part! So I explained it one more time and went back to my own shoot around, hitting 3's, pull-up J's, the usual. He tried a couple more my way, but pretty soon he was back to looking like Rory Delap. 

So maybe it wasn't a successful lesson. But I tried.

Friends

I need to step it up. Two posts a month isn't going to cut it. If Principal Strickland were here, he'd call me a slacker. Luckily, I just remembered that I love writing. For a while there, I thought I only liked it but I actually love it. Some kinds words from a few friends jogged my memory. 


My dad told me on more than one occasion how lucky I was to have the friends I did. And do. You know what I mean. Tenses can be tricky when speaking of the dead. But he was and is, very right. My circle(s) of friends has been in perspective lately. You see, my bachelor party in Las Vegas, Nevada is 23 days away. That's less than one day per person attending. That's also a confusing way to say that I'm expecting anywhere from 25-35 people to show up. And by people, I mean animals. 


I know exactly how it's going to be, and yet, I have no fucking clue. I just got a report that at least three confirmed attendees were found smacking tennis balls at each other, full force, with no pads and on no sleep, at 7:30 on a Sunday morning. And this is in a quiet shore town. There's no telling what a 24 hour buffet of vice will do to characters such as these. You could probably make a funny movie about it. Probably.

I know the draw is at least 75% Vegas, 25% me, and that's fine. I'm still pumped...wait I don't want to be pumped. That sounds queer. I'm still stoked that everyone's showing up. It's gonna be awesome to see this crew in one place. If this is the first you're hearing of the party, uhhh, sorry?? I quote Hans Aumier, deputy commandant at Auschwitz when he stood trial at Nuremberg, "I had very little to do in the planning of this thing."

But seriously, if you're free the weekend of May 12-16 come on out. Weekends are five days sometimes. I can't wait.

Pow Pow City

Ocean's 11 isn't too bad. It's overly talky, as most Soderburgh films are, however, it's excellently paced and pretty well acted. But I'm not here to talk about decade old movies playing on HBO at 1:30 on a weekday afternoon.

Mammoth Mountain was the place to be this past weekend as the Roxy Chicken Jam descended on Northern California! Ria and I left Friday morning and had a very uneventful drive. The weather was beautiful the whole way up after they got 24" of snow the day before. But they'd done a great job of clearing the roads, so we found it curious that chains were required for the last couple of miles. I have video of our reaction, but I don't like my voice in it. Is that really how I sound? Kinda Travis Pestrana-ish? Ugh. Maybe that's why I'm into writing now. Anyway, we were annoyed. We decided to take them off when we stopped at the leasing office. Rebels! 


After settling in, we took the shuttle up to Main Lodge for an apres ski event, which for us was apres drive. I've been in town less than an hour, and I'm already getting free beer. My mood was buoyant. We even made a flip book!

After dinner and a few more drinks, we decided to call it a night knowing that we wanted to make an early start in the morning. We woke to our housemates who'd arrived over night and to snow that wouldn't stop falling all day. 


I don't have pictures or video, but imagine the funnest glade runs possible, add some more snow, subtract the Eskimo women draped in Caribou skins, and that's what it was like. Visibility was poor on most of the open runs, especially right off the chairs. In fact the top wasn't even open, so it wasn't a perfect day. The peeps who stayed for Sunday and Monday and hell, the rest of the week got that. (Miss Crunk can show you how much snow there was.) But the tree runs on the lower half of the mountain off Chair 8 were really really good. If I'm only going to get one day in this season, which appears to be the case, that was a great day to have.
 
Ok, time to wrap up. I know reading about someone else's good time can be annoying. That night, one of our group, I won't say who, but their company had an event in town, "made a commitment to party" and by the end of the night, I was faded, just water skiing in her wake. We were very very tempted to ride on Sunday, but the pain of leaving powder behind was tempered somewhat by our discovery of Dick's Smoke Wagon in Big Pine. Just outstanding. Next season there will be multiple Mammoth invasions.

I have no idea what to write about

I really don't. But I've had a few fractions of ideas so as I do sometimes, I'm just gonna go and see what happens.

I'm addicted to the NCAA tournament. Or maybe just to the idea of the tournament. I can't imagine not filling out a bracket. I think I've been doing it since the 5th grade or something and I can't remember a year when I wasn't in a pool.  As a kid I  was so goddamn excited looking at fresh bracket in the sports section on Monday morning after the selections were announced. As with a lot of sports-related things a lot of the romance, goes back to my youth, to my dad, to a simpler time. That sounds cliche, but it's true. 

Watching these games reminds me of being in high school and talking to friends about the first round upsets in between classes. It reminds me of St. Patrick's Day 2000 when I got drunk in the dorms while watching games and ended up breaking my hand. I think a lot of people feel the way I do, whatever their method for hearkening back to the good old days. Who doesn't love a good heark? 

The 2000 Tournament. Trust me.

Now, as the title of this blog tells you, I'm only 30 so it's not as if I'm a jaded old man (although I'm looking REALLY forward to that). The tourney gives me the opportunities to make new memories. Will they be as sweet as the ones from my carefree college days? No. Of course not. At least not my freshman year. But I guess I have to look at things through a different prism or something. Maybe 10 years from now I can write about how in 2011 my fiancee kicked the fucking shit out of me even though I'd spent hours pouring over advanced basketball metrics and she made her picks while eating breakfast as I called out the match-ups. Maybe in 10 years I'll find this hilarious, but right now on the afternoon of 3/18/11, losing by four games, I'm pissed.


Didn't mean to write that much about hoops. That's how it goes though...Here's something else I think is interesting. It could be a topic for my other, health/fitness related blog, but I feel like writing about it here. Obviously, I'm an attractive enough guy. Obviously. I did ok with the ladies over the years (yes, that was past tense) and I still catch them checking me out from time to time. But what if I was a woman with a proportional fitness level? How would a man see me? Oh God, that sounded gay didn't it! HA! But think about it, aren't women held to a higher standard? Like, I'm not at all embarrassed when I'm at the pool, for example. I've been working out, and I look ok. But if I were a chick at the pool, in my heart of hearts, I would probably look like this:

Decent, not great. This girl's body certainly is not unattractive, but no one would mistake her for Irina Shayk. Is this making any sense at all? By the way, I typed "average girl in bikini" into Google and turns out there's an Average Girls in Bikinis page on Facebook! Don't believe me? Boom.

So ladies, I feel your pain. I'm trying to hold myself to the high standard that your gender has set. Oh advertising and the media set that standard? Whatever.