R.I.P., Air McNair

When I first heard of the death of Steve McNair a few minutes ago, this was the image that immediately popped into my mind. "Air McNair" of Alcorn St. A college football player from a small 1-AA SWAC school who managed to capture the attention of the country. A larger than life athlete.

It is rare any professional athlete touches us personally. For the most part, we are "pure" fans, watching from the outside. We make judgments and assumptions about players' personalities, their character as human beings, their relative "goodness," largely based on perception. Most of us have not been in the locker room with these men or shared a huddle or a team meal alongside them. We watch players like Steve McNair from our living rooms and form opinions from their actions on the playing field, their demeanor and conduct in post-game interviews and a very non-scientific "feel."

Unquestionably, McNair was one of those players (and there aren't many) for whom my perceptions were universally positive. I'm sure countless analysts, former teammates and opponents will share the familiar cliche over the coming days that Steve McNair "played the game right." Too often this is a throw-away line. In this case, it seems more right appropriate for this man than it may be for most other professionals I can think of. He also carried himself - and appeared to be respected -- as an ambassador of the game and of those who shared the same occupation as NFL players. It always appeared McNair's selfless attitude also translated beyond the gridiron.

It's almost always sobering to hear about the death of a player or personality that you "grew up with" through the intermediary of sports, film, publishing or some other media-oriented channel. However, it's far more seldom that the death of an athlete - moreover one that never played on any team to whom you pledge allegiance - floors you. That is the case now, as I pause to reflect following the death of Steve McNair.

The only thing seemingly definitive about this story is that nothing about it is (or will be) immediately clear. McNair's death may reveal things that say more or less about the man over the days and weeks to come. But, for now, sadness is the prevailing emotion. A 35 year-old husband and father of four is gone. Professional football and its fans have lost a man who left indelible memories on so many of my era. RIP, Air McNair.

The Legend Hits Philly Inquirer/I'm Outed

Well, so much for complete and total anonymity. After being no more than Cecilio's Scribe for two years, I've been outed - in one of the leading newspapers in the country no less.

In a perfect example of the wonderful weirdness that the blogosphere has helped create, your humble editor (pictured to the left) graced the pages of today's print and online editions of the Philadelphia Inquirer. In a story by John Gonzalez (he of recent Internet fame as part of the Ibanez "scandal," and the more reasonable of the two MSMers on that Outside the Lines segment), my Mets addiction and downward sprial toward the recent two-week rehab stint is chronicled in great detail.

It's a sad story but one that could likely be told (in various renditions) by many a Mets fan. My thanks to John who read about (and dug) the whole rehab/detox concept and gave me a call earlier this week for an interview that led to today's column.

For anyone curious, my return to the Mets has been measured and, hence, quite smooth (so far). I'll certainly be keeping close tabs on the Phillies series and hoping the Metros can steal two out of three, but it certainly won't be keeping me up at night if they don't.

Have a great holiday weekend, all.

Back from the Brink: Kudos to Antonio McDyess

This is the vision of Antonio McDyess I remember best. Hunched over, looking a bit battered. It was six years ago, during the 2003-04 season, when McDyess was a Knick. And for anyone who'd ever watched basketball, he was clearly a player on the way out. Beaten down. Fragile. Fighting an uphill battle with his heart against a body that simly couldn't and wouldn't keep up.

To understand how sad it was to watch, one had to understand the recent history and promise of the player leading up to that point. McDyess had established himself as an NBA stalwart. A member of the 2000 Olympic team, he had the physique and game of Amar'e Stoudamire long before AMare's arrival. During that 2000-01 season, he averaged 20.8 PPG and 12 boards a contest -- and a block-and-a-half a game to boot. He was a member of the Western Conference All-Star team. A 26-year old with plenty of runway left and maybe even some more upside. Then it disappared.

By the time McDyess arrived in New York, a lot had changed. Early in 01-02, he went down with a ruptured patella tendon and has season-ending surgery. It would then be almost two years before he came back to the floor after re-injuries and multiple setbacks. The Knicks had high hopes for McDyess. I remember. I was hoping he was the guy before the injuries. It was clear even early on that he wasn't. Then, it happened again. McDyess didn't even make it through the exhibition season. A broken kneecap in an exhibition game shelved him again.

Eventually, he'd return to play 18 games with the Knicks and finish in Phoenix. Career lows of 5 and change points/boards a game, but, more telling, he looked done. It was like watching Jose Reyes run the bases a few years back. You closed your eyes and hoped nothing bad would happen. In McDyess's case, it was every dunk, rebound of fastbreak. He looked just unsteady enough to go down again.

Regardless, it was clear his career was on the swift decline. It was sad, moreso because you could see in his eyes how hard he'd fought to get back...how much he wanted to be the old explosive Antonio...how hard he was fighting against nature knowing it was a losing battle.

Fast-forward to today and how I landed on this post. Earlier this evening I was reading about the Pistons early moves in free agency, signing Charlie Villaneuva and Ben Gordon. The ESPN story ended with the following:

"The Pistons now turn their attention to re-signing forward Antonio McDyess, but they'll have competition from the Cavaliers, Celtics and Spurs.

And that's when I stopped...and gave Antonio McDyess a long-distance fist-pound. Good for him. Sure, I was fully aware that McDyess was still around and a member of the Pistons. But, in the context of his career, the final sentence of that article is somewhat remarkable. The mere notion of McDyess playing in the NBA if offered up six seasons ago might likely have been greeted with laughter by even the most prophetic of pundits. The concept that McDyess might be sought-after having proved himself still valuable after a season in which he averaged nearly a double-double over 62 games?

Yet, McDyess now enters his 14th season in the NBA and is due to make many millions. Whether it's the Pistons who ante up, or some of the many other suitors rumored to be seriously interested, they're getting a gamer. For anyone who is a Knicks fan like me and watched McDyess wither into a shell of his former self six years ago, it's a pleasure to seeing him continuing to play the game and contribute. Who knows maybe he'll even latch on somewhere with a chance at a ring. It would be a fitting close to a career that many lesser players might have abandoned a long, long time ago.

When Sports and Baby Names Collide

I Thought He Looked Like a Carlos, Too

Those who've been around the block with me here at the LCG know I'm 31 with the tre-deuce lingering around the corner. It's cool, though. I've come to grips with my 30s. With them has come marriage, talk of mortgages, linked bank accounts, responsibility and all sorts of other frightening things. Meanwhile gunslinging young bucks are seemingly all-around the sports blogosphere. They're all sex, drugs and rock n' roll. Going out on weekends. Getting hangovers. Caruousing. I hate them. Yet, despite our differences a common thread links us. Sports boasts the magical power to bring relevance to virtually every topic. This includes baby names. Yes, baby names.

This fact hit me the other night when my wife and I dined our with one of my childhood buddies and his lovely wife. They're "expecting," so our dinner conversation not-so-surprisingly veered toward the popular topic of baby names. Here's where sports managed to creatively insert itself somewhat unexpectedly.

For a few months, my friend and I (both devout Mets and Jets fans) had casually tossed around some personal favorites - D'Brickshaw and Laverneus among them. Shockingly to both of us, no dice. My wife had even gotten into the spirit offering up Tatis as a fine first name on one occasion. I happened to think it was bold and innovative. Negative traction.

So this past Sunday night, as we enjoyed a lovely "couples meal," some real possibilities were being discussed in between sips of red wine (on a side note, the more the ratio of Bud bottles to glasses of vino shifts in favor of the latter, the older and older I feel). It was in the course of this conversation that I realized the true power and ever-reaching influence of sports fandom.

You see, in addition to the banana-fana-fo-fana game, there are other important filters individuals (e.g., the non-sports fanatic ladies in our life) must be aware of including names of players for whom some venom is reserved (by their husbands, of course). Observe a portion of our conversation below for further explanation.

Me: OK, hit us up with one of the names.

His wife: Promise to tell us your honest opinion?

Me and my wife: Absolutely

His wife: Braden

Collision one. My buddy and I look at each other both immediately thinking the same thing, as a funny-looking knowing grin spreads across each our faces. Both wives stare back at us with expressions that belie the same sense of utter lack of understanding.

The Women (to us): What? (in unison...and in one of those critiquing and accusatory tones that automatically implies you're a complete moron(s) for what's about to come of your mouth(s) )

The Men (somewhat embarrassingly studdering/explaining): You see...the Mets...they used to have this closer...Braden Looper...

More looks of incredulousness. We move on. Fast-forward 10 minutes...

Me: What else ya got?

His wife: Chase.

Me: I actually dig Chase. Potential to be bad ass...(trailing off). Wait...

His wife: What?

Collision two. Guess this is the part where it bears mentioning my buddy's wife's family is from Pennsylvania, and their sports allegiances are firmly rooted with the Eagles and Phillies. So, you can probably see where this is going.

This time it's my buddy who is giving me a different look that say's "think about it for a second."

Me and my buddy (in unison): Utley

My wife and his wife (in unison): Huh?

I'll spare you the rest of the conversation, but you get the gist. It was at once highly amusing and all sorts of enlightening. It also got me to thinking of names that are off-limits should my wife and I decide to make the leap in the near future. A few that came to mind immediately included Alex, Brett, Herman and Aaron.

So, you can call me crazy. But, chances are, I think you smell what I'm steppin' in. If so, hit us up with a few names that are on your personal banned baby name list.

The NBA, Where Amazingly Mobile Happens: Name that Team

The Glove Fit...In Seattle

Maybe it's perception. But doesn't it seem like players move around the NBA at alarming speeds these days? I mean, sure I'm not the fan I used to be. And, no, I don't play fantasy basketball, so I may not be as up on rosters as the die-hards. But for years now, I haven't been able to keep up. Gary Payton played somewhere other than Seattle? Gimme a break (yes, I know technically he did). C'mon, Antoine Walker's still a Celtic. Wait, he's really on the Grizzlies?

Maybe I'm just behind the times and the game has passed me by. But, perhaps, you're like me? If you're having trouble keeping tabs, here's a rundown of new faces in new places. Test yourself blind. These kids today...


The Mighty Ben Wallace. Seems like just yesterday he was the most feared defensive player in the game. He was a Pistons fixture. The question wasn't whether he would dominate for years in big D on D, the only matter for discussion was how he'd wear his hair. Now, he's a Phoenix Sun after a quick stop in Cleveland. Wait, huh?


Ah yes, Jason Kapono. The fixture of the All-Star Game weekend three-point shooting contest. A nice little player off the bench for the Heat. Oh, right, it's sitting there in front of me on the mic: I meant the Raptors. Hmm...he also played in Charlotte and Cleveland. Ladies and gentlemen, your newest Philadelphia 76er!


Speedy Claxton. Remember him 'cause he was a Hofstra product and a sparkplug off San Antonio's bench. Turns out he was only there a year. It was Speedy's second stop and would be followed by Golden St., New Orleans, Oklahoma City, Atlanta and now...back to Golden St. Who knew? Seven teams in nine seasons. Speedy is right.


Jamal. Promising youngster with the Bulls...I mean, Knicks...I mean, Golden St., I mean, the 29 year-old Atlanta Hawks guard? If you say so...


Ahhh, Krazy Kurt. Loved him as a Knick. Surprisingly consistent jumper. Also, never committed a foul in his career (according to him) -- always got a kick out of that. Miami. Dallas. New York. Phoenix. Seattle. San Antonio. Next stop? All aboard for Milwaukee! Ugh. Even Krazy Kurt doesn't deserve that fate.


Mike Miller. Anyone, anyone? Yes, I would've gone Grizzle as well. I'd forgotten he'd also played in Orlando before that, and Minnesota last season. It's OK, though, because he's a Wizard now. Duh.


I always remembered Lue and those dreadlocks. Ask me one team he played for though and there would admittedly be a long moment of hesitation (or possibly several moments). I think I would deserve a pass. Lue has managed to stay in the NBA for 10 years. Ready for this? Lakers. Wiz. Magic. Rockets. Hawks. Mavs. Bucks. Now, he's back with the Magic for round two -- for now.


Last but not least in our latest round of moving pieces, our boy Q. The days as a sharpshooting threat in wide-open Phoenix are long gone. Enjoy Memphis, buddy. Poor guy.

These are just the recent folks who've shipped around. There are plenty of players I still imagine are playing for a team they likely took the floor for four teams ago. Hit me with some of yours.

Congrats, Mo

Yes, you're reading that title right. This Mets devotee is saying something nice about a Yankee. Don't expect it to happen again.

Congratulations to Mariano Rivera on his 500th save. If you're a real fan of the Mets or the Yankees, pure unadulterated hatred is typically reserved for the other hometown team. Those who claim they "root for both," or "like one a bit more, but want them both to do well," are posers.

So, it's fair to say I've hated the Yankees for many, many years. However, to be honest, the teams of the past were somewhat easier to despise than the current roster. In terms of players, it was never hard to click off folks in pinstripes to whom our ire was directed. Clemens. Pauly "cry-after-every-call" O'Neil. Chuck Knoblauch. A-Rod. The list could go on and on. Mariano Rivera has never and will never grace that list of despised Yankees.

Mo has taken the hill year-after-year and just competed -- and done so better than virtually any closer in history. At one time, he could blow the ball by you in the mid-90s and make hitters look foolish with the cutter. More recently, as a few MPH have ticked off, Rivera the pitcher is showing why he's so special. There's never any theatrics or showing other players up (like our new spastic closer). Nary a bulletin board quote is uttered by #42. He just goes out and gets the job done, typically in dominant fashion.

Well done, Mo. This Mets fan salutes you.

Two-Week Mets Rehab and Detox Over: Lessons Learned

Rehabilitated? I Don't Know the Meaning of the Word...

A wise philosopher once said: "Isms in my opinion are not good. A person should not believe in an ism, he should believe in himself." Prescient commentary. Fanaticism is one of those isms, and it too is not good. This is one of the things I've learned after going to Mets rehab. In fact, my two-week long detox has given me perspective on so many things. I shall tell you about these learnings, yes?

First, a quick recap for those just joining the program. Approximately two weeks ago the Mets dropped a game to the New York Yankees in which two runs scored in the bottom of the ninth on an Alex Rodriguez pop-up to second base. Despite decades of watching the Mets find new and inventive ways to lose, I had never seen anything quite like this. A single moment, as ball hit leather and then dropped implausibly to the grass in slow-motion, encapsulated everything it is to be a fan of the Metros. And I had finally seen enough. I tapped out.

At 11:08 p.m. on Friday, June 12th, I checked myself into Mets rehab. It was a self-imposed two-week vacation. The move was excessive and irrational. It was also completely predictable. You just need to go back to that word "fanaticism." You see, fanaticism is described as "excessive, irrational zeal." I have always been fanatical about the Mets, and it is all sorts of irrational.

For decades, the Mets had brought me very little pleasure and great deals of pain. Rehab was perhaps a foregone conclusion. In retrospect, the only real question was when, and the answer was found somewhere in Luis Castillo's glove (if only for a fleeting second). However, as I began my journey I quickly gained the advantage of perspective. I realized my rehab was more aptly described as "detox," a temporary cleansing of the system of all Mets stimuli.

Kicking the habit was never a realistic outcome, but a little time off seemed well within the parameters of proper and responsible treatment. So, for 14 days, I abstained from watching any Mets baseball -- live or on television. No radio, either. I tracked my progress and learned a great deal about myself, and my addiction.

During that time, the Mets won six games and lost nine. They are depleted yes, but they are also just not very good. My detox was actually quite easy -- and rather enjoyable. I didn't miss them much, which is to say not at all. There were no dejected text messages to my Mets cronies. No rants about their ineptitude on this blog. No hours spent struggling to fall asleep needlessly contemplating how another defeat was inexplicably snatched from the jaws of victory. The benefit of distance also reminded me of a few things that will help me now as I prepare to return to the world of Los Mets.

1. Really good teams typically have good to very good managers. These things seems to correlate. The Mets are led by a painfully average (at best) manager. Hence, the fact they are a painfully average team should not be very surprising.

2. The Mets have two proven pitchers -- and one of those is Livan Hernandez. This is not a good omen for a 2009 baseball team that has playoff -- or even (chuckling) championship -- aspirations.

3. Our team's most intimidating power hitter is a 40 year-old man who considered retirement back in 2004 and most pundits wondered if he was good enough to make a Major League roster this year.

4. The squad's franchise player is hitting .244 with RISP and two outs. With the bases loaded, his average is .182. Yes, I know he is second in the majors in hitting. These averages are still notable. They are not good.

5. Clutch pitching. Clutch hitting. Fire. Grit. Hustle. These are not terms one would think to ever associate with this team. This is also not good.

With the above in mind, and the joys of detox fresh in my consciousness, I make a not-so-triumphant return to my beloved Mets with the same loyalty but a bit less fanaticism. The Mets are like a movie you've hyped up with no logical reason to do so. Head to the theater with those lofty expectations, and you will undoubtedly be disappointed. Go in hoping only to "be entertained" and your chances significantly improve (except for evenings like last night, which must have been riveting by the way..."one hit? that's all we got was one g-ddamn hit?").

Besides, isms really aren't good, and I don't believe in them anymore -- at least not in a 162-game season. During the fall on the other hand...

Wait, who's on the mound tonight? Livan vs. Wanger? So, you're saying there's a chance? Hello, my name is Cecilio's Scribe, and I'm a Mets addict.