Stay Classy, Kansas City: Ron Behagen

Back, and sporting less class than ever, it's time for another installment of "Stay Classy, Kansas City." This short-lived series is one in which we examine past and present professional athletes from various KC teams through the years. Today's installment is a tad different, as we'll spend a short bit of time overviewing the NBA franchise that now -- and for the last 23 years -- calls Sacramento home. Equally, if not more, important, we'll spend less time than usual raking the subject of the post through the coals, as there wasn't a whole ton of dirt to dig up on former KC Kings players. Behagen made the cut, however, because an incident in which he was involved could be -- albeit a stretch -- linked to some of the courtside atrocities of today's game. All the fun and goodness, a jump shot away.

The history of the Sacremento Kings starts in 1945 in Rochester, New York, where the National Basketball League's Rochester Royals would earn the NBL championship in their debut season by easily handling the Sheboygan Red Skins. Five years later, as part of the NBA, the Royals handled state-rivals the New York Knickerbockers for a second franchise championship. The following season, they claimed their first division title, a close race against the Minneapolis Lakers. In the semi-finals of the post-season, they would easily handle the Fort Wayne Pistons in round one, only to lose to those same Lakers in the second. At the conclusion of the 1956-57 campaign, the Royals would move to Cincinnati, where they would net seven playoff appearances, two trips to the Conference Finals, and employ future Hall-of-Famers such as Clyde Lovellette and Oscar Robertson.

In 1972, the Royals again relocated, and this time their home was, uh, a duplex? For three seasons, the Royals, renamed as the Kings, would split home games between Kansas City, Missouri and Omaha, Nebraska. Before the start of their fourth season, they dropped the deal with Omaha and made KC their permanent home. In this 13-year existence, the Kings would win one lone division title, earn five playoff appearances, and land one trip to the Conference Finals before heading west one last time. And it is somewhere in the fold of this Kansas City stay that the Kings selected University of Minnesota Golden Gopher Ron Behagen. Actually, it was the 1973 NBA Draft, but who's fact-checking?

During his tenure as a gopher, Behagen was involved in a 1972 in-game brawl with rival Ohio State. Allegedly, his teammate Clyde Turner flagantly fouled Buckeye Luke Witte, which prompted fellow gopher Corky Taylor to pretend to help Witte up from the ground. Instead, he kicked him in the crotch, naturally clearing the benches of both schools. In came Behagen, who pulled, what contemporary fans may call an Albert Haynesworth, and stomped on Witte's head, leaving him unconscious. The move, according to The Columbus Dispatch's Rob Oller, likely had negative impacts on Witte's then-future basketball career, leaving him with "a lasting emotional effect as Witte became less aggressive and thus less effective on the floor."



A few weeks prior to publishing the story that contained that quote, Oller published an editorial regarding the infamous incident. In it he references the horrid Pacers/Pistons brawl from four years ago, and the Miami/Florida International brawl from two seasons past.



He does so to suggest that the on-court NCAA brawl from 36 years ago was a precedent for the modern in-game misfortunes.

Some blame the trickle-down effect -- the pros do it, so why shouldn't we? -- for creating unstable situations for younger athletes. But bad behavior trickles up, too. Within the past year, incidents at Ohio high school basketball games have included students holding up white trash bags to demean the economic or class status of the "white trash" opponent.

We here at the House of Georges, don't aim to imply either way. We're kinda like "Dragnet" detectives, where we supply just the facts. Ma'am. And hey! if those facts somehow tie in to a feature we're running -- jackpot.

We're looking for the money ball, the go-getters, and the classy.
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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-26-08

GOD BLESS AMERICA and God damn Canadia while we're at it. It's Memorial Day, when hard-working Americans take some time off, fire up the Kingsford, drink to excess and watch a little Baseball In The Daytime while they're at it. All across this great land there are extension cords snaked out to patios, stoops and decks, marrying the fine art of barbecue with the electronic transmission of, ugh, Skip Caray.

North of the border, however, those heathen hokey-loving fucktards are for the umpteenth time bastardizing both our great nation and our great national pastime. The Blue Jays have chosen this sacred holiday to once again thumb their noses at our veterans and the great wars they've fought to keep Canada safe from global oppression. You think you could have made it five minutes against the Axis alone, you Canuck cocksuckers? How did your Mounties fare fighting the Afghans, the Iraqis, Al Qaeda, the Vietnamese, the Koreans, the Germans, the Brits, the Mexicans, the Grenadians? That's right, you stayed home eating your cured ham and skating on ponds.

I'm a big advocate of pulling our brave men and women out of Mesopotamia, but I'm no pacifist. Let's send those soldiers, planes, tanks and bullets to Canadia and reclaim what's rightfully ours. Hell, I'll get off my fat blogger ass and fight too. Then maybe they'll schedule a Memorial Day game at a proper and dignified American hour...

Kansas City @ Toronto, 10:37 Mountain Have fun planning around this Royals game today, KC. Let's see, I need to get down to Price Chopper and pick up some steaks, grab some beer, the bank's closed, that's out, get home, light the coals in time for first pitch at when? I'm telling you, Ontario as the 51st State never sounded so good. Brett Tomko and Shawn Marcum (Actor: "What do you want on her face?" Director: "Marcum! Marcum!") start this one off to the strains of two national anthems.

Arizona @ Atlanta, 11:05 Back in the States, a pair of early Cy Young candidates lock horns in this Georgia peach. Many expected former Cy winner Brandon Webb to get off to the start he has (9-1, 0.98 WHIP). But few foretold the emergence of Jair Jurrjens into a poor man's ace (5-3, 1.17). Few outside of yours truly, that is. Let's not all start sucking each other's dicks just yet, however, I also thought Rich Hill would take it to the next level. And that level was not "Triple A."

NY Yankees @ Baltimore, 11:35 While these two knuckle-dragging clubs have virtually the same record a nickel south of first-place Tampa, they couldn't be more different in terms of public perception. The Orioles, sayeth the casual baseball observer, are toast. The Yanks, however, should right the ship any time. Not so fast, kid. Unless they suddenly start growing pitchers in a terra cotta pot in the dugout they will sink this season. Darrell Rasner, the first seedling from said pot, totes a 3-0 record into this game against Garrett Olson. Oh, and let me go on the record as saying that moving Joba to the rotation is dumber than a bag of hammers.

Milwaukee @ Washington, 11:35 From our nation's capital comes this Memorial Day's most patriotic contest. It features the Brewers, which is appropriate because Samuel Adams and Benjamin Franklin invented beer and it is produced in no other nation, especially Canada. Ben Sheets is the Sconnies' starter, while Jason Bergmann takes up the flag of the hometown Nats.

LA Dodgers @ Chicago Cubs, 12:20 From the Friendly Confines comes our final exhibition of sunshine roundball. Chad Billingsley was bumped from his scheduled turn yesterday by the kid phenom Clay Kershaw and goes today. Now many veterans would bristle at this slight, but Billingsley ought find the plate once in a while before he starts pulling rank. Ryan Dempster starts for the Cubs, but Ryan Dempster is a God damned Canadian. That sound you just heard was Humberto enlisting in the Marines, ready to invade the moment he's given the order from his superior. All jokes aside, folks, take a little time today to thank a vet, and Play Ball!
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Stanley Cup Finals: Game One Re-Cap

I hadn't intended on doing game-by-game recaps, but frankly, the pestulance of the Lone Reader has, in some odd way, inspired me to do just that. For the record, I'm pulling for Pittsburgh, and am an avid Red Wing hater. I'm a Blues fan, so the two teams that've pushed my boys around the most are the Stars and the Wings. Sweet Western Conference Finals. If interested, review the comments here, and -- assuming you caught game one -- decide for yourself just how well the Pittsburgh Penguins did or didn't fare in the Finals' first contest in Detroit. If need be, there's some propaganda after the jump, or just make your own (preferrably) educated statement(s) in the comments.

For starters, Pens goalie Marc-Andre Fleury totally set the stage for Pittsburgh demise by falling on his way out the door.



The Big Lead's got its own take on why the game wound up the way it did. It has to do with the non-chef Swedes.

Phil Coffey over at NHL.com has some select words in his game-one summary.

Goalie Chris Osgood wasn’t the beneficiary of an easy night in goal, despite gaining the shutout. Despite his team’s dominance over the final 40 minutes, Osgood needed to be strong in the first period. He made a dozen saves, including several real testers from the Penguins’ strong array of offensive talent.

Interesting. The fourth word of the second sentence there, that is.

The four-letter network chimed in too, of course.

And Yahoo summarizes the match as well.

And courtesy of Barry Melrose Rocks, we have Steve Levy, Don Cherry, and Barry Melrose discussing -- amidst buffoonish bumblings -- the game. Levy makes an interesting statement at the 1:27 mark.



And that's all I have to say about that.
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Putting the Gamma Radiation in Your Sportiverse

This is the slow period of the sporting calendar.

I could write that previous sentence literally every week of the year but 16, so it has the value of being both true and reliably cliched. All we've got is baseball--and the NHL finals and NBA semis and college Lacrosse tournament, but you know what I mean. Summer is almost here, the lilacs are beautiful, the girls wear short skirts, the cops circle-dance in moonlit meadows, but sports? Like an Ambien bender during a Rick Steves marathon.



It's not because I don't care about the NBA and the NHL--well, about the NBA anyway--but I simply can't be bothered to invest in these current series. Lakers versus the Spurs? I'm rooting for a double bus crash. Pistons against the Celtics? Hmmm...two of the most obnoxious fan bases in America and the most thoroughly bludgeoned story line in the league in KG and Pierce and Allen and their respective haloes. Think I'll sit that one out too.

And even if I was one of the 46 people in North America who regularly watched hockey regardless of whether or not the local squad is playing, I'd naturally shun Penguins versus the Red Wings. Not because of any particular animus toward the Pittsburgh team, I mean those crazy fuckers used to actually let a live penguin waddle out on the ice, but no one outside the rotting metropolis of Detroit or the historically insignificant country of Sweden cares about the Red Wings, and I hate being force-fed any player as a league savior, like those masterminds at Versus and the CBC have tried to do with Crosby.

So for now it's chuckling at the ineptitude of former Post writer Bill Williamson on ESPN's Hashmarks blog. That'll have to last me until minicamp at least.
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The Quest for the Cup: HoG's Finals Preview

It's that time of year again. The excitement, agony, anxiety and pride of fighting through an 82-game season and three best-of-seven playoff series are over. Seems like yesterday guys were reporting to camp for pre-season workouts. Now, late in May, the quest for the Cup has reached its acme. Two teams, one shot at the most coveted trophy in professional sports. Like the clip in yesterday's post says, "It weighs 35 pounds, except when you lift it." A look at Michel Therrien's Pittsburgh Penguins and Mike Babcock's Detroit Red Wings, after the jump.

This no doubt is the most difficult prediction post I've written to date. I'm going to examine some of the tangibles from both of these squads, but it, as players frequently say, will all boil down to who gets out there and plays better hockey four out of seven times. Sounds silly, I know. But this is where the overdrive kicks in, where 100% hustle for every loose puck is demanded of every guy on the ice for every second he's out there. This is where, if need be, a defenseman errs on the side of caution, and shows restraint against those tempting opportunities to pinch in along the halfwall. Those defenders must stay at home, never forget the weak side, and deliver crisp outlet passes on every occasion, regardless of the hit that's coming.

This is where wings and centers must continue to cycle in the offensive zone. They must remember to use their points often, and stay moving down low afterwards. This is where using all the ice, especially to gain the neutral zone, will be pivotal. And goalies? Goalies must simply be goalies, and be awarded clear lanes of vision in all instances possible.

This Finals epitomizes experience versus youth. Neither team gets the edge on those identifiers alone. It will be a matter of who better uses their strengths to their advantage when it comes to tilting this series.

The Prince-of-Wales-Trophy-holding Penguins have a sleuth in Therrien as their bench boss. He's emerged from a moderate playing career, and an only mildly-impressive-at-best coaching past to assemble one of the best single-season NHL records in history with last year's 105-point campaign in Pittsburgh. His club, the talk of the league, was filled with potential, a chance to become the next Edmonton Oilers of the 80s and win multiple championships. They bowed out early in the first round, and have achieved the crucial: bottling their potential and exhibiting a marked improvement upon last year's impressive season.

The Penguins are loaded with talents seldom-seen in the league. They have the uber-young, coveted heir to the Gretzky throne in Sidney Crosby. He dons the "C," and leads veterans like Petr Sykora, Marian Hossa, Sergei Gonchar, and Pascal Dupuis. He also leads peers in Evgeni Malkin and Jordan Staal. Throw in the oft-improving netminding of Marc Andre-Fleury and x-factors like (House of) Georges Laraque and Gary Roberts. A guy can't find enough to say about Gary Roberts. In his own way, he's the journeyed version of clutch other sports see in the likes of Derek Jeter, Kobe Bryant, or Tom Brady. If Therrien's Penguins want this Cup, it's theirs for the taking.

Standing in their way, however, are the icons of professional hockey from around the world. Seldom does Detroit put together a less-than-excellent club, but this just might be the best they've skated in a long time. Better, perhaps than the days of the Federov/Yzerman-centered clubs that threw teams around for many years. This Red Wings team, if it can harness all its potential, has the ability to throw around all the talent and leadership in the seemingly unstoppable Pittsburgh Penguins.

Detroit can stop them, but they've faltered in two of their three previous rounds, nearly letting Nashville back in the Quarters, and the Stars in the Conference Finals. Tonight they square off against a Pittburgh club that becomes the 11th squad to reach the Finals with two or fewer losses since 1980. Hockeytown's mix of Czechs, Slovaks, Swedes, Fins, Canadians, and -- yes, even Americans could destroy the Penguins if they choose to take this team seriously.

Aside from the fact that Detroit has Chris Osgood (backed by Dominik Hasek, no less) in net, they're so stacked with champions, it's sickening. Darren McCarty, Brian Rafalski, Nicklas Lidstrom, Kirk Maltby, Tomas Holmstrom, Kris Draper, Pavel Datsyuk, and of course Chris Chelios are the loaded anchors of veteran poise that can command this club's march to victory. Add the youth and flair of Johann Franzen, Valtteri Fillpula, and Henrik Zetterberg, and that's one frightening lineup. Throw in the wit and grit of Mike Babcock, and, from this vantage point, the edge seems in Detroit's favor.

So much so, that I don't think the march of the Penguins down championship road starts here. Not this year. This Goliath is a few notches too deep to be toppled by the spryness of the Davidesque Pittsburgh. Gary Roberts turned 42 yesterday. He's been a staple everywhere he's played. The 46-year-old Chelios knows a thing or two about being a staple. He hoists one more Cup before hanging up the skates.

Having improved to an overall post-season prediction record of 52-32, I'm feeling pretty confident. This championship series could go seven games, all of which include overtime. But it won't. A rejuvenated passion has come alive in the Steel City. Mario's manning the team, Sid the Kid is living up to expectations, and the Igloo will finally be replaced. This could be the end to the 16-year Cup drought in Pittsburgh. But the stakes are too high in Hockeytown. It's been six years since Detroit won a Cup, and they've only won three in the last ten years. Wings in six.
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Friday Morning Fracas: 8-23-08

As we all head into the long weekend, it's time to have our weekly look around the sporting planet. After the jump we'll look at what's been happenin', what is happenin', and what's still left to happen. We might even watch an episode of "What's Happenin'!!" That'd be sweet. Make sure to get out the readin' spectacles, though. There's tons of great writing (Editor's Note: None of which was done by us.), some fun StubTubes, and even a handful of pictures. Woo-hoo!

After a strange, six-day delay in between rounds, the Stanley Cup Finals finally get underway tomorrow at 7 p.m. (Central) on Versus.



(courtesy of Awful Announcing)

Speaking of hockey, The Big Lead points out that Cloud9Sports has drawn a comparison between the great game on ice and the great woman talk-show host of the 20th century.



Me? I don't get it, but I'm not smart or rich.

Still more hockey: We Are the Postmen shares a feature on young Chicago Blackhawk Patrick Kane, and how he likes burying the disc in the twine, the biscuit in the basket, the stick in the (penalty) box.



Those these lovely ladies aren't Russian, I imagine the practice they display is one in which the great woman of Siberia and Moscow may want to employ when the youngster's around. Cane admits that when in Russia, "you’ll see the hottest chicks you’ll ever see. It’s not a great area but the girls down there, they’re pretty good."

In NFL news from The Postmen, the Cedric Benson tale gets bizarrer.



So far, the only certain facts we've gotten out of this twisted tale are: a) Cedric Benson owns a boat, and b) Cedric Benson hangs out with white girls. I mean, what is this, the 21st Century? Aren't those reason enough to put him away for life? Come. On. (Editor's Note: That was a joke, people.)

While we'd love to pledge more -- more, I mean some -- NBA coverage, that's a promise we can't guarantee. We're way too white, short, fat, uneducated, lazy, sans vertical jump, the list just keeps on going. What we can do, is point you in the direction of good hoops blogs from time to time.



Like Free Darko. They publish a) consistently, b) hoops material (almost exclusively), c) good writing, and d) lots of scary and odd photos. Have a looksie.

In MLB, the Red Sox made (relatively) easy work of the Royals in a four-game set this week. The fluctuation of scores was pretty interesting: (the no-hitter led off; 2-1; 6-3; 11-8). Each game had a the proverbial big inning, killing the Royals' chances. Yesterday's match, however, had more than one including a pair of Boston grand slams. Other news from the AL East include a Yankees victory?



Crazy. I can't figure out if that's the ghost of Billy Martin, or Lou Piniella, or Joe Girardi.

(courtesy of Bugs & Cranks)

Also in the sticks-and-balls department, more cameras to be added to the wide world of sports?

And hey -- some hockey! ESPN's Page II provides us with "44 Reasons Not to Miss the Stanley Cup Finals." There's some great stuff in there. Trust me. I know what I'm talkin' a-boot.

As (semi-) promised...



Happy Memorial Day, y'all.
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My Sports Life is a Rock Song: Nervous Breakdown

Yes, dipping my toe into the SLiaRS territory, and damn, it feels...well, pretty much like it always does when I post: somewhat addled.

So we're going straight to the heart of American punk rock for this one. Black Flag's classic transcended lead singer, whether it was Chavo or Dez or Hank or any of the other random assholes who occasionally hopped onstage for Greg Ginn and Co.

And to say the least, it accurately describes the current state of any thinking Bronco fan.

With Brandon Marshall wrestling a McDonald's bag and Mike Shanahan firing his GM and Pat Bowlen inexplicably crying poverty and the middle linebacker and the (deep breath) many other issues that confront Orange-n-Blueville, how can we not feel thus:

I'm about
To have a nervous breakdown
My head really hurts

Man, if that ain't the troof. And then the injury to Tony Scheffler--really a continuation of last year's aggravating foot problem--and hearing John Clayton badmouth 'em on local sports talk radio, and that same station's insistence that losing Jason Elam was the signature issue of the offseason, well...

If I don't find my way outta here
I'm gonna go berserk

Testify.

If, on the flip, we manage to scrape together a half-decent season, then we'll visit America's Greatest Hardcore Band--maybe "Six Pack," or if it involves Philip Rivers, "My War."
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Stay Classy, Kansas City: Larry Johnson

After a brief hiatus, we're back with another installment of "Stay Classy, Kansas City." Today, we re-visit the gridiron and examine a 2003 first-round draft choice out of Penn State, a guy that's in tight with Jay-Z, and frankly doesn't give a flip what anybody has to say. Well, anybody except his his dad of course. This guy has been in the headlines more than any KC sports figure in the last five years. Five years? Really? Sometimes for game-day performances, and sometimes not. Though mysterious and intriguing, the one guarantee from the Chiefs running back is that there will never be any shortage of Inverted-Vagina-Symbol flashings. More on this, and more, after the jump.

The locker-room/organization vibe regarding LJ got off to a terrible start. The Chiefs had Priest Holmes listed as number one on the depth chart, and rightfully so, in that in two short years, he was on his way to shattering many a Chiefs rushing record. Number 31, however, was coming off a frightening, mysterious injury, one in which few believed he could re-claim his old form. Chiefs GM Carl Peterson was nervous, and wanted insurance. Then Head Coach Dick Vermeil wanted receivers and defense, but probably just receivers. Hell, he had Greg Robinson manning the D. What else do you need?

Little time was wasted in LJ acquiring this information, and he was less happy that he was by being drafted by a team not called the Steelers, one that didn't need a first-rounder to start. Thus there was a rift between Johnson and Vermeil. Holmes' recovery and production that year was, uh, pretty good. As in Pro Bowl, record-breaking rushing-touchdown good. Ultimately, LJ saw little-to-no action that year, netting 20 carries for 85 yards and a score.

And then he may or may not have hit a girl and threatened her with a gun. Luckily for LJ and the Chiefs, though, the magic drop-charges-against-pro-athletes phenomenon swirled overhead, and the ordeal was swept under the rug.

Fast forward a spell and the infamous Dick Vermeil diaper quote occurred, and LJ unsuccessfully (but with impeccable grammar) masked his frustrations, so Dick Vermeil apologized, and that episode was put to bed. But not really.

Fast forward again. Holmes goes down again. This time, however, second-stringer Derrick Blaylock is not the second-stringer. Johnson is. And he hit the field "running angry," as they've said in an effort to tag his style of rushing. Just when everything, a couple of seasons later than Johnson wanted, seemed to be going well, the Nittany Lion alum may or may not have assaulted another girl.

Never to fear. In came the charge-dropping swarms again, and all was right with #27. Then he had to take a secret stab at Chiefs fans by saying that they're a conservative, wine-and-cheese kind of bunch. Now, I didn't poll any other Chiefs fans, but my personal thoughts went something like, This dude has clearly never seen one speck of the Arrowhead tailgating or seating populous.

Since then, LJ has had some great success on the field, 2007 as a whole aside. Last year, the season of his still-unanswered foot injury, came after the Chiefs and Johnson flopped miserably in a playoff performance against the Colts, and the running back called out the coaching staff and their conservative/predictable game-day approaches. It was not the first time, and likely won't be the last.

Johnson, in this off-season, has perhaps unintentionally assumed the role of the once-oft-absent, mysterious Holmes, and stayed out of the media. I posit that that coincides with Johnson's injury/lack of production last season. And I'm certain that, in the future, LJ will offer more tips on just how easy it is, to stay classy.
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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-22-08

It's Thursday, and Thursday is Cecil Day at the HoG. Your intrepid chronicler of vintage wartime propaganda posters and the workout habits of 22-year-old men will check in at some point today to regale you with tales of sporting might. Until then you're stuck with me and my rampant homerism for all things Red Soxy. Sorry!

I'm still a bit hung over from last night's intoxicating debut--the Fat Man is back. B.F. Bartolo Colon took the Fenway mound for the first time as a member of the Olde Towne Team(e?) and...didn't really suck. He hurled five innings of effective work, gave up but a pair of runs, and led the Sox to their sixth straight win. And he was his measty, sweaty, rotund self while doing it--God it's good to have Bartolo back in the big leagues.

Those Red Sox and Royals finish off their series today, and that tilt is joined by two other games on the afternoon docket--enjoy, after the jump...

Seattle @ Detroit, 11:05 Mountain You've heard before about the Old Man, the crotchety curmudgeon that occupies a spot in our fantasy baseball league. Our message board is chock full of his nonsensical rants and awful punctuation, and a few weeks back he unfurled his latest insane theory--that his selection of Miguel Batista in the 22nd round was superior to mine, a kid named Jon Lester. How's that workin' out for ya, Old Man? Batista makes a start today against Jeremy Bonderman and the woeful Tigers, and if he throws a no-hitter I'll take it all back. I'm not expecting to take any of it back.

Texas @ Minnesota, 11:10 Continuing our theme of once-nasty pitchers who are now just holding on to their paychecks, this contest gives us Vincente Padilla versus Livan Hernandez. Padilla I'll always remember as the final pitcher in the infamous tied All-Star Game. That's right, Vincente Padilla was once an All-Star! And as for Livan, my lasting recollection of him will forever be the NLCS contest back in 1997 when Eric Gregg gave him a strike zone wider than, well, Eric Gregg. He struck out 15 on that night against the Braves, but at least half of those Ks were on pitches that barely made it inside the batter's box, much less to the black of the plate. I hope Livan sent Gregg a share of his playoff loot.

Kansas City @ Boston, 11:35 The Royals attempt to avoid getting swept (why do I feel like I've written that sentence a few times in the past?) today at Fenway. They send Brian Bannister to the hill, which is a shrewd move. You see, Bannister is a mortal pitcher at night (0-5, 8.13 ERA). But let him out for a little Baseball In The Daytime, and you get a superhuman pitching wolverine with jet-pack turboboosters and laser-beam eye sockets (4-0, 0.62). Joe Posnanski, who's developed an affinity for Bannister that borders on how Michael Jackson feels about fourth-graders, documents every start with his BannyLog. If anyone can get to the bottom of these crazy day-night splits, it's JoePo.

For even more insightful KC-Boston dissection, look no further than this very web site, the occasional home of the absolutely indispensable Roy F. Almania. Roy took us inside Tuesday's matchup, particularly Billy Butler's pivotal at-bat against Jonathan Papelbon. Now during last night's game, NESN's Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy pored over this same at-bat, pointing out the fact that Pap went to a slide piece to finish off Butler--and apparently he never throws that pitch in that situation. It's nice to know that the homespun wisdom of ol' Roy can occasionally trump the city-slicker hot air of the mainstream press. That's baseball--the people's game. Play Ball! Read more

Lone Reader Wedding Weekend Wrap: Director's Cut

When we arrived at the NFL Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio last Thursday afternoon, the facility was stuffed full of screaming kids on a field trip, and I felt my blood simmer a bit as I coughed up $18. Lucky for them, they were on their way out, and we, in a sense, had the place to ourselves. It was a fun time, a good kickoff to the bachelor party, and it was educational, too. Seeing as how we weren't quite drunk yet, I was able to spend a good part of the three hours there learning me some stuff. A lot of it was dry, dreary historical facts from the first chunk of last century, and there was no shortage of rotting dummies dressed in burlap uniforms and aged place-kicker shoes that fit the role of exhibits. As the timeline tour got newer, however, it got better. The bust room was of course incredible, and there was a new wing that had only opened five days prior. After the jump, I'll cast some rays on those tidbits. Let's roll 'em...

It was neat to learn how football originated in Pennsylvania somewhere around 1900, and how its life there as the football haven of North America suffered, then faded into the annals. Along came the sleepy town of Canton, where some school football rejuvenated the sport for America, historically speaking. Over the course of the next 50 years, some stuff happened, highlights -- some audio, some video -- were captured, and the NFL was founded.

Along the way, some of the original teams won a ton of championships, and eventually the AFL appeared, inadvertently threatened the owners, and merged into the league we know today. As we made our way toward the 60s and 70s, those that collected items on display naturally saw the exhibit pieces grow with the league's popularity. While attempting to entertain and educate hall visitors, however, the verbage on the displays continued to remind folks that it all started in Pennsylvania.



Finally, we neared the segment of football history that we all know, love and remember to varying degrees, and the levels of excitement grew. Granted, there were sour reminders of the not-so-great moments in history,



but even those times were enjoyable, 'cause hey -- football and learning -- win, win.

As we neared the bust room, I'd decided that there were five things that really surprised me:

1) All years of ownership/president aside, George Halas coached the Chicago Bears for 40 years. Forty years!

2) Al Davis was NFL Commissioner for one year: 1966. Didn't know it. Sweet tenure, though.

3) In the old days of straight-on place kicking, one dude had four of his toes lopped off in an elevator accident, then had a special, flat-faced shoe made so that he could continue kicking. First off -- nasty. Second -- did that remaining toe hurt like the dickens every kick thereafter?

4) The Green Bay Packers have won back-to-back-to-back championships on two separate occasions. Pretty impressive.

5) And finally, a House of Georges fact: The Kansas City Chiefs number one pick from the aforepictured, famous quarterback draft of 1983 was of course Todd Blackledge. His illustrious career spanned five entire seasons, most of which he was not the starter. His last action came in the form of relief duty in 1988 when he subbed for former Pittsburgh Steeler (and Bronco!) Bubby Brister.

The new display at the hall, was pretty sweet. They had some great, and some questionable displays in there. Among the questionable would be massive likenesses of Bob Sanders, Tom Brady, and Terrell Owens. Each of these cats will likely have a bust made of them when it's all said and done, but it seemed a bit premature. Of the sweet variety was a nice big encasement of a certain somebody, who just happens to be the best of all time at his position, who broke yet another record for said position last year. I do believe it was an all-time-touchdown record or something of that nature. And the NFL managed to scoop up his gloves, shoes and jersey from that afternoon, which (hey!) happened in Cleveland.



By the time we'd seen each corner of the new exhibit, it was time to call it an afternoon. Most of the guys were sneaking in and out for belts of Scotch and swigs of Little Kings in the parking lot, and we were slightly unsure how the Canton police would react to that. So, we made plans for food and strippers, not necessarily in that order, and made our way into the gift shop, then south to the lake.

For the record, the establishment was not over, rather accurately represented by Chiefs. I counted four Broncos, two of which played like a half a season for Denver, so take them out and -- my math is good -- that leaves two. There will certainly be more in the future, but as it stands, the orange and blue are the majority in the House, but the red and gold certainly rule the Hall.



And cut. That's a wrap.
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We Are Hot Chicks Wednesday: Fire Your Guns

It's normally obligatory in this space to feed Gary Coleman updates to his legions of adoring fans. I did find this news: former California gubernatorial candidate Coleman is on Barack Obama's short list for a vice presidential selection. Arnold For America. Yes We Can.

Since it is, after all, an election year, I'm sure we'll soon be hearing a whole bunch of boring garbage about the Constitution. Who'll nominate judges that strictly adhere to the intent of the Founding Fathers? Who will defend our personal freedoms guaranteed in the Bill of Rights? Who gives a rat's shiny ass? It's Wednesday, and the only reason I'm on this stupid web site is to see some boobs!

Well, you're in luck, pervs and patriots, because that dumb old Constitution does have three passages I rather like. One is the 21st Amendment, which allows me to drink myself into a coma if I so desire--screw you Prohibition. Another is the 2nd Amendment, which grants every man, woman and child the right to pack heat and shoot immigrants. And finally, we have the 1st Amendment--the only reason a slanderous rag like the House of Georges is allowed to stand. The 1st Amedment allows me to post pictures--pictures that I happily stole off the FaceTubes and iSpins--of Hot Chicks in their underwear unloading clips of hot lead. America, love it or leave it.
















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Baseball In The Daytime: 5-21-08

In the bigs, teams play in one of three kinds of parks. You've got your old classics, your Fenways and Wrigleys, and I include the revitalized yards in LA and Los Anaheim here. You've got your shiny new facilities. And then you've got those dumps that make the fans stay away.

Two day games take place in the majors today. One, at shiny and relatively new Coors Field, features a couple clubs that enjoy acclaimed home stadia. The other, coming at you from the Al Davis Creepatorium, will showcase two teams looking for new digs. After the jump, all the basebally architecture you can handle...

San Francisco @ Colorado, 1:05 Mountain If the Rockies were a dog on a farm, they'd have been taken out back and shot by now. It seems incredible that a team which enjoyed so much success last year is playing out the string before Memorial Day, yet here we are. If I can offer my brainy expert analysis as to why this club is awful, it would be this: they suck at every aspect of the game of baseball. They don't hit, especially in late, close or clutch situations. They don't get anybody out, either with their pitching or their defense. And I'm pretty sure that Clint Hurdle has had a tanning bed installed in the dugout. Today the Dominican Walk Machine, Ubaldo Jimenez, tries to avoid any further embarrassment for this franchise. His doppelganger is Jonathan Sanchez of the Giants, who's dirty.

Tampa @ Oakland, 1:35 This one's a rematch of Super Bowl XXXVII, only with a smaller ball, fewer pads and Frank Thomas playing the role of Warren Sapp. Both the Bay-Rays and the A's sit in second place these days, after briefly inhabiting the top spot of their respective divisions. They were also the only two teams to sport green unis, until Tampa bitched out, ditched the "Devil" and bought some new born-again threads. Today's starters are Dana Eveland and Andy Sonnanstine, a pair that sounds as if they'll be applying for a civil union at the Alameda County Courthouse following the game.
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Tradition Tuesday: Dear Mr. Postman

Since the price of a first-class stamp went up last week, I needed to make a trip to the post office. So I could buy a one-cent stamp. So I could absolutely mail in this edition of Tradition Tuesday. Enjoy.

Not much going on in the Choncosphere this week--no self-inflicted injuries or arrests, no big signings or cuts. So we take you, dear readers, to the suburban wilderness of New Jersey. Mets manager Willie Randolph, who's hanging on to his job by a thread, lashed out at the fans and the press over the weekend. He came up with some pretty wacky theories, and along the way invoked the name of our favorite coaching quote machine: Herman Edwards.

We encourage you read the full text of Ian O'Connor's interview, but here's the money shot:

Asked directly if he believes black managers are held to different standards than their white counterparts, Randolph said: "I don't know how to put my finger on it, but I think there's something there. Herman Edwards did pretty well here and he won a couple of playoff (games), and they were pretty hard on Herm. Isiah (Thomas) didn't do a great job, but they beat up Isiah pretty good...I don't know if people are used to a certain figurehead. There's something weird about it."

Now I'm not going to get into an analysis of race in this space. It's not what we do here. I'm sure there's some merit to what Randolph is saying, and I'm sure there's also some defensiveness and bitterness from a man who's about to get canned. Let's leave it at that.

But I do have to comment on the spectacular parallels Willie draws between his own situation and those of Isiah Thomas and Herman. If you're going to select kindred spirits, you may want to dig a little deeper.

Isiah Thomas was perhaps the worst coach or manager in the history of professional sports. He singlehandedly bankrupted the CBA. He took a loaded Pacers team from Larry Bird, a team that was fresh off an Eastern Finals appearance, and led them through several disappointing seasons. Immediately after he left, Rick Carlisle took them back to the Eastern Finals.

Then he went to the Knicks, and the fun really began. After loading the roster with complete shit as GM, he engineered the ouster of Larry Brown and took over the coaching duties himself. Under Isiah's "leadership," the Knicks were a leaguewide laughingstock, compiling a 56-108 record over two seasons. On top of that, Isiah was sued for sexual harassment by a team employee, and that lawsuit resulted in a jury award of $11 million and revelations that point guard Stephon Marbury banged an intern in his truck.

Courtesy of Deadspin, here's Isiah Thomas' Knicks legacy, summed up in one possession:



I'm sure Willie Randolph can see why the press and the fans "beat up Isiah pretty good." They pay the highest ticket prices in the NBA to watch the team with far and away the league's highest payroll, and Isiah gives them 56-108.

Now let's move on to Willie's other brother-in-victimhood, the honorable Herman. We adore Coach Edwards around here, because he's always giving us something to work with. He's an international television superstar due to his appearances on Hard Knocks, his YouTube cred is unmatched, and in his spare time he can even coach up a defense a little bit.

But go back to Herman's tenure with the Jets, the time period Randolph mentioned in relation to his own struggles, and it's hard to find much evidence of unfair treatment. Herman replaced Bill Parcells, who took the team to the AFC Championship game and left behind a fairly loaded roster. Herman did engineer three playoff appearances and two postseason wins, and for that he was praised in the media and rewarded with a fat new contract.

But in 2005, the Jet crashed and burned, and black box recordings reveal that pilot error on the part of Captain Herman was the main cause. Sure, they lost several key starters, including Chad Pennington, to injury. But Herman mailed in his job performance more egregiously than I've half-assed this post. The team reached open mutiny while Herman looked for another contract extension, and the final record was 4-12. All the while Carl Peterson brazenly broke league rules concerning tampering with another team's coach. The Jets and the Chiefs eventually worked out a deal, with KC sending a draft pick in exchange for Herman's services and the league offices burning all of the incriminating evidence.

Herman compiled a 39-41 record with the Jets. He was criticized heavily on all fronts, but that was almost entirely based on the ugly, unseemly, catastrophic 2005 campaign.

We could argue all day whether a white coach who turned in the job performance of Isiah Thomas or Herman would have received the same scrutiny. But it seems to me that the hostile fire directed at these men, as well as Willie Randolph, is attributable to working in the crucible of the New York media market. Win there, as Joe Torre and Tom Coughlin have, and you'll be sainted. Lose, like Ray Handley and Rich Kotite and Larry Brown did, and you'll get skewered.

Herman knows this, which is why he finagled his way out of the crucible and toward sleepy Kansas City. Draw your own conclusions about the level of racial enlightenment in either market. I just know that if I were the coach of a losing team, I'd rather that team be in a one-paper town in Missouri than The City That Never Sleeps.

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Musings from Roy F. Almania: Bleacher Bumblings, Billy Butler Blanked with Brimmed Bases, Boners of Papel Leave Boys in Blue Blue in Boston

This is "Musings From Roy F. Almania" where, from time to time, I loan my key to the House to my cousin from Joplin. He's a bit rough around the edges, but he can tear apart a John Deere engine and have it greased and back together 'fore supper's ready. And he knows a thing or two about Royals baseball. He begged me to let him post on last night's no-hitter tossed by Jon Lester of the Red Sox against Kansas City, but I convinced him otherwise, knowing that Seven would cover it. When he phoned at the conclusion of this evening's 2-1 loss, he was not to be denied again.

I ain't one to blame refs and umps and fans often. I don't much care for cursing, neither. I had cuss tonight's crew, though, when, on top of sleepy KC bats, the boys repeated history.

Like Seven said, Nolan Ryan last no-hitted the Royals. It was 1973, I'd just gotten out of the service, and, hell, cousin Banky wasn't even born yet. But that's another story.

Anyhow, the game after Ryan's no-hitter, the Royals managed but one lousy run, and lost 2-1. There was a couple instances to avoid such repetition tonight, and they was these: 1) Kansas City had a legitimate opportunity to score the game-tying run tonight, and they was forced to settle with a ground-rule double when Boston fans interfered with a ball in play in rightfield. I know we can't expect an ump to rule on it any different than they did, but it infuriated me. Like that Seven guy says, "Just sayin'."

The Royals also, like I mentioned, had one opportunity to zap this game alive, and that was young Billy Butler's at-bat in the eighth with the bases loaded. Now Billy came into the evening hitting .276 with 18 RBIs, and still that one lousy homerun. We know the kid can hit, but he's been cold, and so have the rest of the bats in blue. Something's got to change, and change quick-like.

That at-bat, though, is where I tip my hat to Red Sox skipper Terry Francona. Actually, I tip it to him for the entire half-inning. He handled the pitching situations with patience, and smarts, asking his closer to deliver four outs instead of three. Butler and Papelbon had never squared off, and the youngster got his spikes a bit stuck in the mud.

Kansas City has shown us that they can deliver pitching scenarios comparable to the one Francona and company put on display tonight. They have not shown us much of anything from the batter's box. I reckon it's time for Mr. Hillman to change something about the puny offensive outputs this club keeps offering before the decades of hitting droughts begin to wash away all the good we seen so far from this year's Royals. Detroit don't aim to stay in last, and the Twinkies, Tribe and Sox will eventually distance themselves from one another. It'd be nice to throw the Royals, with good pitching and better-than-average hitting, into that muck that is the Central.
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Tradition Tuesday: Tradition Week Matchups Re-Cap, The Year 2002

The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Denver Broncos and the Kansas City Chiefs, but the details surrounding that have been beat into the ground more often than NBA players travel, so let's cut the bullshit.

Two thousand two was, in many ways, a monumental year, The Tradition not excepted. It would perhaps arm Old No. 7 with the mental ammunition necessary to hone his poor-man's Photoshop skills, and win the battle in which we engaged in the creation of this post. More importantly, it would tilt the evened-out, home-field advantage for years to come, damage that only compounds more with sweeps like last year's. Bear with me as I break stuff and sniffle.

A hearty caravan made the drive to KC in October 2002, and the participants included Old No. 7, his kid brother Young No. 19, and the ever-elusive Mayor McVesco. And rest assured, good times were had. On game-day eve, after the Coloradoans went a-golfing while I garage-saled it, the lot of us went to an Irish bar and drank, and watched some sort of epic Red Sox game that I'm not going to research. Prior to that segment of the evening, we visited a dive bar where the nutjob girl I was dating at the time was being paid to "sing," lending way to the now-irrelevant phrase "panic attacks and lounge singers."

It was at the pub, however, while watching baseball in the October, that we thoroughly exhausted tubgirl stories (Editor's Note: Wow.) and nearly died driving home due to uncontrolled laughter. The next day was an epic day at the stadium, complete with a Chiefs doll boofing a Broncos doll on top of an RV, ribs, separated, cell phoneless ticket shoppers in our group, and a lot of beer.

There was also a mulleted man (that in between alcohol-induced naps screamed "I smell donkey doo!"), his five-tier-mullet-boasting wife, and a football game. It was also the first, and perhaps the most blood-boiling occasion in which I was graced with the stellar "In-Com-Plete!" at Arrowhead by visiting fans. On the field, however, there were Tony Richardsons, Ed McCaffreys, Brian Grieses, Ashley Lelies, etc., the typical good and bad from both sides. There was also a Shannon Sharpe, who netted something stupid like 12 catches, 214 yards and a pair of touchdowns, I believe. And one of the clowns with me was likely donning #84 for the contest.

For the second year in a row, the match would not be decided in four quarters alone, and for the second KC-Denver overtime game in a row, the toss-winning club would punt on first possession. The Chiefs, of course, not only couldn't capitalize on the ensuing drive, but had their punt blocked, setting up a short Jason Elam game-winning field goal. Broncos 37, Chiefs 34.

The mix of post-game emotions varied in levels of intensity, but they all turned back to some form of slap-happy as we made our inaugural visit to Popeye's Chicken for game-night dinner. We made quite a spectacle -- one red jersey, three blue -- and the lady behind the counter suggested I acquire one that match those of my buddies. Two gentlemen in line ahead of us then castigated her for not supporting the hometown team, and her reply was the now-famous, "First of all, I don't even like red." Moments later, when she placed the gents' bag of food on the counter, they would counter with, "Is that my food? Throw it in the trash, and make it again."

I'm certain that, while watching Prime Time and the evening game, that we each passed out with red beans, rice, and cajun-ham gravy on our shirts and laps. It was a solid day.

Part two of the '02 Tradition was far less exciting. My father had passed away in June, and it was easy for me to host while mismanaging my money and drinking to excess. When it came time to load the car and head to Denver in December, though, things looked shaky at best, and I bowed out at the last minute. I did, however, watch the game in my bedroom with the same drunk, lounge-singing girlfriend, who, by the way gave me terrible gifts like a copy of the DVD "Serendipity" -- I owned nothing but VHS tapes and didn't much care for lame Sandra Bullock movies -- or a copy of some James freaking Patterson novel that had cover art that screamed chick lit.

To this day, I'm not sure which aspect of the evening was more depressing: spending it with her, cooped up in my room drinking Miller Lite cans and not hanging with the boys in Colorado, or the game itself. The Chiefs fell behind early, but somehow staged a rally, which is pretty much the only time that's happened in Denver since the days of the old Mile High. As the game clock ticked away late in the fourth, a slew of penalties were handed out to both clubs, and ultimately a game-tying touchdown from Trent Green to Tony Gonzalez hit the ground, and the Chiefs lost 31-24. That Green-to-Gonzalez pass, though one of many over the years, travled in the slowest of motions I have ever witnessed as a sports fan. And the Chiefs were on the Denver 15, too, so it wasn't like a Hail Mary.

I remember feeling bummed that I wasn't there, elated at the possibility of the tie, eager for revenge from the home game, and then flutteringly glad that I'd decided not to go.

So, Bummersville, kind of, all around on the Denver side of the '02 Tradition front, but remarkable memories for both sides for the game in Kansas City. Either way, it was a season to remember, the second of many campaigns in which we have lived and died with our teams, dressed to the nines in enemy territory.
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