Best Win Of The Season

It's 12:30 in the morning, east coast time and I just throttled my poor sleeping cat in excitement after Franklin Gutierrez's momentous game-winning shot to left center and Aarmdsma's lucky rebound from last night. Holy shit! M's win!!! M's WIN!!!! 

I think this blog's been silent lately because no one quite knows what to write about the Mariners this year. Every time you want to believe they're legit contenders, they stab you in the neck with back-to-back losses to the lowly O's. And every time they do that, they come back with a huge, and  for seven innings, seemingly unlikely, victory. 

The last three games represents the epitome of this Mariner baseball club. 

But I'll tell you what, the M's looked more pumped and fired up about this comeback then I've seen them in years. Since 2000-2001, for sure. And this team has a youthful talented spirit, much like our mid-90s teams. They have swagger. Swagger. It's such a vague, almost undefinable term, but you know it when you see it. Ichiro knows nothing but swagger.Griffey was born with it and still exudes it. He earned that 8th inning walk with swagger. 

 And I see it in Felix and Franklin and its rubbing off on others like Lopez and Aardsma and even Cedeno -- the most swaggerly .130 hitting player in the history of Mariner baseball. I hate him, but I somehow think he'll come through. It's weird.

As you can tell, I'm a tad bit excited. I can't help it, I'm a believer. I sat here watching the game getting more pissed with every swing and miss, every feeble dribbler to second. But I kept with it, kept thinking Ichiro or Griffey or, most definitely, the talented Mr. Guti. I believed. And I believe we'll take two out of the next three from Texas. Momentum and swagger are decidedly on our side. 

One last thought. My friend Graham, an admitted and mildly self-loathing Yankees fan (one of my top three favorite Yankee fans), slapbet (when the loser of the bet gets slapped, for those not familiar with the term) one of his friends that the M's would win the West. At the time, the M's were playing out of their minds toward the end of April. I still thought it was a bad bet. And probably a bet made under the influence of obscene amounts of alcohol. 

My initial thought was reinforced with steel by our putrid play at the end of May and beginning of June. But we're back, Baby. And playing better than ever. We've improved. We've got swagger. Graham, you may yet become the slapper. 

What's Your Fantasy: Wide Receiver Addition

The 2009 Fantasy Football season is stocked with talent at the wide receiver position. That being said, do not and I repeat do not consider drafting one in the first round. No wide receiver warrants first round consideration. I know some of you out there think Larry Fitzgerald is god, but he will come crashing down to earth if his 38 year geriatric QB gets hurt. Wide receivers are just too risky to take early mainly because they rely on someone else to get them the ball. In my estimation there are about 30 wide outs that will be strong contributors this year.


Here are my top 12 wide receivers including their 2008 stats:


1. Larry Fitzgerald: 96 catches, 1431 yards, 12 TD’s

2. Calvin Johnson: 78 catches, 1331 yards, 12TD’s

3. Randy Moss: 69 catches, 1008 yards, 11 TD’s

4. Andre Johnson: 115 catches, 1575 yards, 8 TD’s

5. Steve Smith: 78 catches, 1421 yards, 6 TD’s

6. Greg Jennings: 80 catches, 1292 yards, 9 TD’s

7. Reggie Wayne: 82 catches, 1145 yards, 6 TD’s

8. Anquan Boldin: 89 catches, 1038 yards, 11 TD’s

9. Roddy White: 88 catches, 1382 yards, 7 TD’s

10. Dwayne Bowe: 86 catches 1086 catches, 1022 yards, 7 TD’s

11. Terrell Owens: 69 catches, 1052 yards, 10 TD’s

12. Marques Colston: 47 catches, 760 yards, 5 TD’s



A few that just missed the cut:

Brandon Marshall: 104 catches, 1265 yards, 6 TD’s

Wes Welker: 111 catches, 1165 yards, 3 TD’s

T. J. Houshmandzadeh: 92 catches, 904 yards, 4 TD’s

Anthony Gonzalez: 57 catches, 664 yards, 4 TD’s

Vincent Jackson: 59 catches, 1098 yards, 7 TD’s

Battle for Soccer Soul of Pacific Northwest Tonight!

Things might get a little crazy tonight in Portland -- Seattle's well-planned, Napoleon-complex-having neighbor to the south -- for the showdown between the Sounders and Timbers.

While the Sounders have ascended to the top flight MLS, the Timbers continue to languish in the opaque obscurity of First Divion U.S. professional soccer. (Most Timber players also have night jobs working in Portland's two growth industries: male stripping and weed.)

The Timbers, of course, will join the MLS in 2011. But until then, they will remain pissed that Seattle was awarded a big league franchise first. So, tonight's match amounts to a Champion's League final for Portland fans, who will be joined by a healthy cotingent of neon green-wearing, mohawked Seattleites.

I'm hoping for at least two or three mid-game brawls followed by hearty communal microbrew and/or Pabst drinking afterwards.

Here's Miguel Romero's story in today's Seattle Times about the rivalry, which dates back to the North American Soccer League.

Here's some coverage from the Oregonian.

Here's what my boy Briggs, a die-hard P-town lifer, said about the game:

"The energy for the game [tonight] is crazy here in Portland. Portlanders are envious, excited and pissed by the sounders early success. Tomorrow's prediction; bloodbath for sure, timbers win 3-2. Supposed to be over 3,000 sounders fans, going to be interesting on the smoke deck at halftime. I'm hoping someone beats up Drew Carey."

3-2, Timbers? Sounds like somebody's already been hanging out on the smoke deck for quite some time now.

My prediction: 2-nil, Sounders. Tim-burrrrrrrrrr! No one's getting past Keller in this one. Welcome to big-time soccer, Portland.

Mariner Optimism

I am and always have been a Mariner optimist. Before every season, even with a lack of talent, I believe through some sort of wizardry the Mariners can win the American League West.

Don't ask me why I feel this way, especially in the years when Jamie Moyer was our staff ace. You shouldn't expect to make the playoffs when your best pitcher is only a 10-15 game winner every season. Still, I expect to see a new banner hanging every year in the best stadium in America. Safeco Field!

Halfway through the season, the Mariners are fighting for every win and find themselves just a few games back in the West. Am I an optimist to believe the M's can make the playoffs? Beltre is out for 6-8 weeks and being replaced by an aging veteran, Chirs Woodard, and a guy who never sees first base in Cedeno. The bottom of our lineup is plagued with guys hitting barely 200. We have some of the worst hitting catchers in the league in Jojima, Johnson, and Burke.

Nonetheless, I still believe the Mariners can make the playoffs. Bedard can come back and give the rotation a shot in the arm. Olson can pitch the rest of the year like he did in Dodger Stadium. Griffey can get hot and hit a few more homers. Jose Lopez is crushing the ball and will end the year around .280-.300. as usual. In other words, anything can happen.

I am leaning towards the Mariners buying come July 31st trade deadline if we are still in the playoff picture. But I want the M's to buy smart. I am not willing to trade away the future for a run at the playoffs today. We just don't have the pieces to do that yet.

I'm proposing we add a bat for cash. Most teams in the Major Leagues want to dump payroll come trade time. The Mariners can take advantage of the current market, add a bat for cash, and not give up any prospects. Instead of trading Washburn and Bedard for below average prospects, since MLB "insiders" don't believe teams will give up much come the deadline, the M's can stockpile draft picks by letting their class A and B prospects leave in free agency.

The Mariners have options, and July is going to be a fun month for baseball in Seattle!

U.S.A. Can't Hold On

What a choke job by the American squad in the Confederations Cup Final. I am angrily punching these keys thinking about the second half. In fact, I'm trying not to throw up in mouth I'm so disgusted by the lack of intensity and aggressiveness by the U.S. players.

U.S. soccer could have pulled off the greatest stretch in their history by defeating the most heralded soccer nation in the world. Instead, the U.S. took a big lead (2-0) into halftime, then laid down in the second half like a bunch of drunk soriority chicks after a mix up. Horrible, unless you're the lucky frat boy!

The game was a tale of two halves. In the ninth minute, Dempsey scored his 3rd goal of the tournament by redirecting a cross by Jonathan Spector. Seventeen minutes later, Landon Donovan scored on a crisp pass from Davies and drilled a left footed beauty past Julio Cesar. At this point I started a frenzy in my house, as I screamed wildly jumping up from the couch and scaring my 130 pound dog, who started barking in unison with my cheers.

My excitement was soon trounced in the first minute of the second half when Luis Fabiano scored from the top of the box. It was an unlucky goal for the Americans as Fabiano's shot went through defender Jay Demerit's legs and into the back of the net. This started an onslought of Brazilian attacks upon the American defense.

Things got ugly quickly for the U.S. team. They stopped attacking, stopped competing, and pulled all 11 players into their own box trying to deny the Brazilians another goal. It backfired to say the least. The U.S. gave Brazil space to operate, to use their quick precise passes and impressive ball skills to penetrate the defense and create endless scoring opportunities. The U.S. played right into the Brazilian's strength, and found themselves down 3-2 as the final whistle blew.

Why did the U.S. stop doing what made them successful in the first half? Why did they pull back into the their own box and stop putting pressure on the Brazilian defense? It was a mistake the U.S. National Team will lament for the rest of their lives. They could have had back to back wins against the two best teams in the world, and taken home their first confederations cup to boot. Instead, U.S. soccer fans are scratching their heads wondering how this monumental screw up will affect them a year from now when the World Cup begins.

Monday Morning Musing's Summer Goals: Become Sounders Fan, Read Ridiculously Long Novel By Suicidal Author

This gets almost downright David Foster Wallace-like. Settle in. 

I have two major goals for this summer: 

1) Completing "Infinite Jest," the 1,079-page genius/monstrosity of a novel by the now-deceased David Foster Wallace, who committed suicide by hanging himself last year in California and who I've been morbidly obsessed with his writing ever since. I've actually made it through 270-odd pages over the past six months, but I'm starting over this week with the help of this handy Web site dedicated to getting readers through the novel by the end of summer. 

2) Becoming a dedicated Sounders FC fan. 

I took my first steps toward accomplishing both of these goals in the past week. First, by wrenching open the novel/biceps builder and beginning to read Infinite Jest all over again. And second, by attending the Sounders match-up against the New York Red Bulls last Saturday evening at Giants stadium in New Jersey. The following is an account of what happened. 

[I realize the Sounders kicked serious ass against the Colorado Rapids yesterday, spanking them 3-0 at the Q. Still, consider this outdated report my midseason analysis.]

First of all, let me just say that it's been ridiculously wet out here in the northeast part of America for the entire month of June. Being a water-raised Seattlite, I don't mind so much, but keep in mind, it doesn't rain out here like it does in the Pacific Northwest. In fact, it doesn't so much rain, as it monsoons. Sock-soaking, coming from all angles, nastiness -- that's what we get out here. 

So it was pouring on Saturday afternoon as we prepared for the football match. On several occasions, my wife announced her intention to stay home. Her argument went something like this: "I'm not going. This is crazy. Nobody in their right minds would want to sit out in the rain and watch soccer for two hours. If you force me to go, I'm filing for divorce." Or something like that. I explained that we'd already bought tickets, we were meeting my brother, who was coming from Philly, at the game and this would be my one and only chance to see the Sounders play this summer. Plus I loved her more than anything, including the Sounders or even sports in general , and that she'd be breaking my heart if she didn't come with me. Or something like that. She begrudgingly came along and picked up rum for the game. I love that woman. 

At the train station in midtown Manhattan where we would catch the 10-minute train to Giants Stadium, I started seeing Sounders fans dressed in "rave green" jerseys and t-shirts. Awesome, I thought, Sounders fever has spread mildly across the country, kind of like swine flu. 

While waiting for the train, I talked to a dad and an 11-year-old boy from Portland, soccer fans, who were site-seeing in the Big Apple and had decided to take in the game. They explained that although they followed Seattle's rookie MLS franchise and impressively could name most of their players, they were reserving their fan hearts for the coming Portland franchise. 

The Portland squad, along with a Vancouver, BC franchise, will begin play in 2011. Knowing the raucous, heckling and knowledgeable Portland soccer fan base, this should create a dynamic regional rivalry the likes of which U.S. professional soccer has yet to see. I'm chalking it up as reason number 183 why I need to move back to the northwest wetlands. 

We made it to Giants stadium, just after the 7:30 p.m., kickoff time. The earlier downpour had lessened into a mild, almost unnoticeable drizzle. Now this is more like it. Just like home. 

We met up with my bro and walked up to the gates, where security was equal to Baghdad's Green Zone -- no backpacks, no booze, no uzis or IEDs. Damn it, I never leave home without my Tec-9. After some futile pleading, they told my brother, who was carrying a small backpack for an overnight stay with us in Manhattan: Tough shit. Luckily, we found a chain-smoking, Coors Light-drinking Jersey soccer mom to watch his pack under a blue tarp next to her Mini van -- she was there for her son's high school all-star game, which was on after the MLS game, and just cooling her heels outside under a tarp, chillin', a one-woman tail-gate party on a rainy night in the Jersey swamp lands. Fortuitous moment. This was going to turn out fine, regardless the outcome. 

Upon entering and walking half way around the soon to be vacant home of the Jets/Giants/Red Bulls/Jon Bon Jovi, I was struck be the sparse crowd. Pathetic. Crappy weather, but still a poor showing. Maybe 5,000 total (500 strong of which were Sounders fans), in a stadium that, with the upper decks and several other sections sealed off, seats 30,000 fans. Maybe its that Red Balls, as my bro calls them, are awful this year. Maybe its the intense security. The place ain't exactly soccer hooligan friendly. Not a way to build a crazy-ass fan base, I'd say.

Twenty five minutes in and nothing had happened scoring-wise when we reached what seemed like close enough seats in our designated section. We thought we might be able to pick what section, given all empties. Nope. They check every ticket for access into every section entrance. And they're not cool about it. Thousands of open seats, but we still want you to seat up in the rafters, right where your broke ass paid for. It's one my biggest complaints with live sporing events. If the seat's open, let us sit there. Simple. No one gets hurt. The only difference is that we enjoy the game a little more. Win-win. I don't ask for much. This should sports-wide policy.

At least we made it reasonably close to the field, near the end line. Spent the next 20 minutes trying to make out jersey names: Alonso (a mini Ljungberg), Riley, Evans, Ianni (not a big fan). I immediately recognized two players who I've read extensively about: Steve Zakuani, our English bred and Akron one year-wonder of a number pick, and Fredy Montero, our precocious Colombian striker, both of whom played exceptionally, I thought. We need the ball with those two as much as possible. 

I also couldn't help but notice big ass Nate Jacqua, our brutishly competent forward, who, say what you will about his skill (or lack thereof), is in there mixing it up and often surprisingly effective. I'm a fan. 

Fifteen minutes after we get there, a clearance ricochets of Ianni, right to the Red Balls one competent player, Juan Pablo Angel, like he just received the most perfect pass of his life. Angel easily beats Kasey Keller (love his fire, experience and still-solid reactions) who gives a game attempt to cut him off. Bummer. 0-1, bad guys. 

Red Balls fans erupt, kind of like how when you climb to the top of Mt. St. Helens and look down into the crater to see gasses slowly, harmlessly releasing (erupting?) from the mountain's volcanic core. 

Earlier, a small five-man crew of hardcore Red Bull fans -- including a dumb-looking kid with a big drum, who wore a red cap, and a guy with face painted red and fake horns sticking from his temples, woo-hoooo! -- got into it a little with us and some of other Sounders fans, one, a dude wearing a Storm jersey. We had a nice little amicable and loud exchange of chants. Spirits were mildly aroused. The dumb-looking kid tried to start a chant of "Where's the Sonics?" that didn't catch on. But I died a little inside anyway. 

Then, with minutes, perhaps only a couple hundred seconds, left in the first, Montero strips a defender right in front of the sideline, breaks hard toward the goal from his left side and rockets a narrow-angled shot into the far corner, right-footed. Goal. Tied. 1-1. Halftime.

The 20 minutes of soccer we'd just seen were exciting and well played. Sounders, I thought, had dominated play and should have scored at least once more, based solely on opportunities. I was pleased and hoping for more action (goals) in the second half. Because whatever anyone tells, more goals are always good for a soccer game. I enjoy the subtle aspects of the game, but goals always add urgency and excitement to a game. 

 The next half was boring, highlighted only by the great play of Montero, who barely missed out on a couple of golden chances, and a guy in front of us who sat down only to have his seat break, loudly, right underneath him.  Only injury sustained was to pride. We laughed.  

Game ended. Tied 1-1.

Here's what I learned about the Emerald City's newest pro franchise, the prescription for the pain of losing the Sonics. Sounders are creating buzz, a mild but still impactful buzz, from coast to coast. The Sounders were the better team, but still couldn't put away a game they should have had. This is a unsettling, but not uncorrectable negative trend. Montero is a stud. Zakuani has loads of potential. Keller is the best keeper in the MLS. Red Bulls fans suck and have no empathy. 

The Sounders are growing on me, but I still miss my Sonics. 

 

Monday Evening Musing: Vegas Style

I did have some decent Pacific Northwest-related sports insight to offer here, but I'd be remiss if I didn't take this opportunity to congratulate one of the Wetland bloggers on his recent engagement, which I'm convinced he engineered just so he would have an excuse to spend a weekend gambling and otherwise debauching in Las Vegas. 

Here's to you, Matty Witt! You're life just ended! How does it feel to be spiritually and sexually dead, at least on the inside? Just kidding. Kind of. 

We'll talk more about that later, while drinking very strong whiskey and chain smoking cigarettes. But, for now, back to the bachelor party.  

By the way, Erika, if you're reading this, nothing crazy ever happens in Vegas despite what Bradley Cooper might have you believe. And if your boy blacks out from too many Jager bombs and blow and ends up accidentally marrying a hot but kind of smart escort working on her masters in exercise science at UNLV ($117) who just happens to love fantasy football, we'll definitely do our damnedest to get it annulled immediately. Well, okay, at least right after we eat something and drink beer in the pool to take the edge off our hangovers.   

Anyway, I'm voting for a high intensity sports weekend for the date, but not too intense that we'll get priced out of a decent hotel. My Vegas bachelor party fell on a decent weekend, almost exactly a year ago. 

It was the middle of the lop-sided but still entertaining (because Kobe got his ass handed to him) Celtics-Lakers finals, the European soccer championships were in its early, games-all-day stage, baseball was heating up and the Mariners were already mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. It was also the U.S. Open. More on that in a minute. 

Most of the weekend was a drunken blur. Here's another piece of advice: never spend more than two nights in Vegas. It's just not good for your health. By the third night, its a battle of attrition. 

There's only two ways the third night ends.  

One, guys come down with mysterious illnesses and coming up with incomprehensible excuses that sound something like "aaaaummmapuuusssy" for staying in the hotel room. 

Or two, guys go way too hard, forget to take into account the fact they haven't slept more than 4 hours combined the previous two nights and are purely running on the copious amounts of oxygen pumped into Vegas casinos, end up drinking too much too quickly, getting in a fight at the strip club because a stripper with three kids tried to charge you for a lap dance you didn't ask for and you flip out like Madonna at a Malawi adoption agent who tries to deny her a new baby and then finally vomiting outside of Fat Burger while your buddy fleeces your Fat Fries. 

Either way, it's not pretty. Two nights. That's it. No human being should ever attempt more than that. 

I'll remember a few things from last year's madness. And that's it. The rest you'll have to read in the book, which I will fictionalize so I can deny everything to my wife. Actually, let's just keep this sports related. 

1) My brother, who lives in Philly, put down $10 on the Phillies winning the series at 10-1 odds. Good call. Bad bet. 

2) The Mariners lost every game they played. Okay, I don't remember any of those M's results, I'm just assuming that was the case. 

3) On Monday, after three nights of heavy partying, my brother and I still had a whole day to kill. Luckily, one-legged Tiger had come back to tie big-assed Rocco Mediate in the Open, forcing an 18-hole playoff and giving us an entire morning of relaxing, easy to watch sports entertainment. 

Which led to this epiphany: If you've spent one too many nights partying way too hard and drinking way too much in 115-degree Vegas, golf is the absolute perfect sport for viewing consumption. I recommend it with a cold Coke and 7 Advils. 

This is why, whatever date we choose, may it fall on weekend where there's a major golf championship. And I don't even like to watch golf. Normally.