NEW YORK, NY - So it turns out that March is Women’s History Month, who knew? While many (including my esteemed colleague Junior Blaber) have pointed out that Black History is celebrated during the year’s shortest month, it also seems no coincidence that Women’s History is recognized during the most unpredictable month on the calendar. Nevertheless, there have been many women in sports who deserve an awful lot of praise and recognition this and every month. People like Babe Didrikson Zaharias, Wilma Rudolph, and Billie Jean King are all worth discussing… but not today. Instead, let’s take a look at some women in sports who have made their marks in less conventional ways.

Margo Adams: Wade Boggs had a four-year affair with this mortgage broker before it was exposed and she sued him for emotional distress and breach of oral contract (nuff said). She later posed for a truly appalling layout in Penthouse Magazine. Still, doesn’t some credit for Wade’s stellar hitting during their four-year fling have to go to Ms. Adams? If you’re gonna credit your fried chicken diet you have to at least acknowledge your lackluster side-dish.

Morganna “The Kissing Bandit” Roberts: If you’re too young to remember Morganna, you truly missed one of the great superstars of the game in her prime. Her double-barreled enthusiasm and bouncy personality will never be matched.

Morganna, seen here helping George Brett forget about his hemorrhoids.

Chris Evert: Yeah she was a a great tennis player, blah, blah, blah. Let’s face it, the audience for her matches wouldn’t have been nearly the same had Chrissie not been so gosh darn cute. She was the girl next door in tennis whites. When she hooked up with Jimmy Connors, it was just another reason to hate the guy. In more recent years she crossed over to the world of golf by helping facilitate the end of Greg Norman’s 25-year marriage and later left The Shark holding his 3-wood, nowhere near a hole. Game. Set. Match. Ms. Evert.

Robin Givens: The woman was married to Mike Tyson. Mike Tyson!!! This was back when grown men were crapping themselves prior to entering the ring with him. And here Robin is sharing a bed with him. Call her a gold-digger, call her whatever you want, you still have to say, as far as guts go, she’s Buster Douglas, Grace Jones, and Evel Knievel rolled into one.

Oh say can you see?

Melissa Lima: Along the same lines of “sports wife as daredevil,” we give you Jose Lima’s ex. It’s one thing to marry a guy rumored to have more STDs than a Hunts Point hooker, but even more death-defying is standing in front of a crowd of narcoleptic Dodgers fans while that guy sings the National Anthem. Thankfully, Melissa was equipped with a couple of diversions.

Natalie Gulbis: Sure we had to get a golfer in here. Natalie hasn’t done all that much on the links but she is the one woman who was romantically linked to Ben Roethlisberger and didn’t accuse him of sexual assault. That’s a big win right there.

Jennie Finch: She made people care about women’s softball.

Lady Met: Do you really think Mr. Met would have made it through these last few seasons without a good woman standing behind him? Please. Lady (Don’t call me Mrs.) Met was once a rising star herself, but she gave it all up to support her husband and his bourgeoning career.

and last but not least…

Elin Nordegren: Not only is she the only woman to ever beat Tiger Woods, she’s the only one to actually beat him using his own clubs. Now that’s impressive.

Anyway, enjoy your month ladies, you deserve it. To paraphrase comedian Larry Miller, if you ever knew just how much us men appreciated you, you’d never stop slapping our faces.

Different Matt, tomorrow…

by Tall Matt

NEW YORK, NY - I am too young to remember Robert F. Kennedy as a US Senator from New York State. Yes, he was a carpetbagger but from what I can read and learn about his time here as US Attorney General and as an inspiring candidate for the 1968 Democratic Presidential nomination, Kennedy seemed like the genuine article. Last year the Triborough Bridge was renamed for Kennedy, which caused an uproar; New Yorkers are constantly beset with change and like a few scant things to remain sacred and as is, and this change came with a $1-million-plus price tag. Now, I’m a bit cranky by nature, so I thought it was a lousy idea from the outset. The bridge is the Triborough and I will always call it such. But but does anyone call John F. Kennedy International Airport, Idlewild? Ok, my mother does but she’s old and kooky and still calls the fridge an icebox and a stereo a Victrola - probably just to get on my nerves… Anyway, the next generation WILL call the bridge the RFK and you should be okay with it. I am. I still call CitiField Shea Stadium mostly, and not out of any malice toward CitiCorp - though I have plenty. It’s just a habit, even though we’re talking a brand NEW building, which unlike said bridge, stands today as it did in 1936.

In 1899 The New York Zoological Society was founded, but today we know it as The Bronx Zoo. 80 years later the borough AND it’s baseball team vied to steal that name but the zoo held fast. Tudor City was once home to slums, tenements, and slaughterhouses and was known as Goat’s Hill, then Corcoran’s Roost. In a classic naming misapplication, the architecture in Tudor City wound up actually neo-Gothic. But it still sounds a hell of a lot better than Abattoir Heights. In another generation Hell’s Kitchen will be nothing but a name in a history book as the real estate lords will ultimately win the name battle with the gentrified - Clinton. Jeez in a hundred years, morons all over will assume the neighborhood was named for Bill or Hillary.

MTM donated Mel Otter to The Bronx Zoo

In a brilliant naming rights move in 1998, Leona Helmsley set as a condition for any future sales the right to keep the structure at Park Avenue & 46th the Helmsley Building in perpetuity. Thus the former Grand Central Building and General Tire Building will never be know as anything but the Helmsley Building. Take that Goldman Sacks (the current owners of the structure)!

We do get our panties in a bunch over the smallest things sometimes, when we should be concerned with the larger picture. If there are name-games to worry about they ought to be that Nabisco (too big already) was swallowed alive by ConAgra… Or watching your small neighborhood bank snorted up and spat back out as Citi. If Yankee Stadium were to be renamed for George Steinbrenner or Massengill, people would be outraged of course - but not as outraged if they didn’t make the playoffs. In other words, THE BIG PICTURE comes into play. By 2050, fans may be affectionately calling The Stadium The George or The Douche.

Where does “Sports Get Funny” apply here? Well, last week it was reported that the planned community in Port St. Lucie known as Tradition has defaulted on their annual payment to the New York Mets for their Spring Training complex naming rights. Not to worry, Tradition is a stupid name anyway. The average nitwit thinks it has some successful baseball connotation rather than the shameless promotion of a Stepfordesque community that paid over $100,000 every year. Good riddance Tradition Field; the word in and of itself sets the bar way too high for our beloved underachievers. Might we suggest a new name not out of deep pockets or commitment to higher ethics but straight out of pure smarm???

A very Angry Ward, tomorrow. And Thursday. And Friday…

by West Coast Craig

HOLLYWOOD – It’s a rough life being your humble roving West Coast Reporter for MTM, as I am forced to shuffle around from Oscar Party to Oscar Party this night and still manage to file a post by deadline. As I type this I’m being jostled by industry scenesters and actors…and that’s just the people carrying the hors d’oeurvres. If I can keep Jeff Bridges from spilling his Caucasian on my laptop, I might be able to hammer out something for you. However, as this will be an Oscar-themed piece, I must warn you that it’ll contain lots of clips, distractions, interpretive dance numbers, songs, awkward pauses, and the whole thing will run over and feel very rushed at the end. We’ll start off light:

Oddest Animal Lead In A Sports Movie: The Air Bud dog is like the Bo Jackson of movie animals, somehow managing to excel at soccer, football, basketball, baseball, and even volleyball. There isn’t a ball out there he hasn’t licked. Of course, Air Bud’s many different skills have spread his votes around, and the favorite appears to be Gus, the field goal kicking mule who manages to win the big game with gangsters trying to get him… But in a big upset, the winner is: Rhubarb. Rhubarb is the story of a Brooklyn baseball team whose miserly owner wills everything he owns to his feral cat. The new feline owner then goes on a rampage, firing managers and cutting ties with popular but aging players to restock his farm team and build a winner with cutting edge statistics. Not really, the cat proves to be good luck as all the players have to pet him as they take the field, and thus evil gangsters are trying to get him.

Foreign Films That Prove Sports Cliches Know No Borders: Here’s one I’ve never seen, but now that it’s been nominated I’ll have to get a screener. It’s perhaps the only Aussie Rules Football movie, called The Club, and it seems to have it all: tight shorts, burly mustaches, evil owners, workout montages with medicine balls and universal machines, and some corny seventies soft rock. I just couldn’t throw a three minute clip of it on here, but I think just watching the first minute of this must give a good idea of its worth. It looks like a classic to me, can any Aussie readers out there verify? The Envelope please… I think I just got a paper cut opening it, ah ha, this is one I mentioned last year but it bears repeating: Shaolin Soccer, if you want every sports movie cliché you can think of, joined with every kung fu movie cliché, this is definitely the movie for you.

Best High School Basketball Movie With A 70s TV Personality As Coach: It’s been mentioned here before, but Gabe Kaplan lent a certain gravitas with his fro to Fast Break. Opening the envelope, however, reveals a surprise! It’s coach, starring Cathy Lee Crosby in tiny shorts, a tight shirt, and a number of completely inappropriate situations with one of her high school boy players (including a pre-Kyle Reese Michael Biehn). There’s even a shower scene that must’ve jump-started the puberty of 12-year-olds around the country, as it did mine. It’s too fantastic even for a Penthouse letter…she’s a former Wonder Woman, she’s the basketball coach, she gives some extra-curricular tutoring to her players… That’s Incredible!

That’s Incredible!

Lifetime Achievement: Harold Lloyd’s The Freshman is generally regarded as the silent era’s greatest sports movie, but I’m a Buster Keaton guy so I enjoy College better (even if it’s pretty clearly a rip off). Keaton’s stunts alone make him one of the best athletes ever to step in front of a camera, but he was also a huge baseball fan who would pick up a bat and ball and make his crew play a game between shots. He had a baseball gag in Three Ages, where he uses a club to hit back a pitched rock, hitting the chasing caveman right in the head (a shot that took dozens of takes to get perfect). In Battling Butler, he was the first filmmaker to put the camera actually inside the ring, paving the way for Raging Bull. In The Cameraman, his last great silent, he got some excellent footage of old, old Yankee Stadium.

Finally, the one you’ve all been waiting for, Outstanding Performance As Self in a movie. Unfortunately for Michael Jordan, his work in Space Jam just missed the cut…the top two performers were just that good. First is Evel Knievel in…Viva Knievel! He rides his bike, he cures afflicted children in the hospital as he passes out his own action figures, and he preaches the ills of using drugs, then he does a couple of laps, and occasionally he jumps something! You can’t get much stronger than that, unless you’re… Muhammad Ali in, (what else?), The Greatest. Here The Champ does a good Muhammad Ali impersonation, with Ernest Borgnine in the roll he was born to play as Angelo Dundee, and James Earl Jones in a role he wasn’t quite as born to play as Malcolm X. Watch in this scene as he goes toe to toe with no less an imposing figure as Robert Duvall, then gets behind the wheel of a bus and explain he won’t turn his back on his people, unless they’re Joe Frazier. He is truly The Greatest, and a fitting figure to end on here.

Angry Ward, Mr. Blackwell’s protege, tomorrow.

by Rex O’Rourke

TOBACCO ROAD, NC - So last night I’m watching Duke throttle North Carolina and I ask myself:

“Self, what is the biggest rivalry in sports?”

Is it Duke/UNC? They certainly rank up there. The Cameron Crazies alone are worth the price of admission. Multiple national championships on both sides and a dust up between Art Hamen and Larry Brown (yes that Larry Brown) in the early sixties has fostered decades of animosity.

Is it Cowboys/Redskins? Those couch potatoes of a certain age remember how big that one was, but is it as big today?
Raiders/Chiefs?
Giants/Cowboys?
Packers/Vikings?
Colts/Patriots?
There are so many they may be watering it down a bit.

Here’s one that’s a little outside the box. Is it Ali/Frazier? I know they haven’t fought in 35 years, but this rivalry had more drama than Liz Taylor had husbands.

Is it Yankees/Red Sox? This one certainly is big but is it national or regional? Does a Mariners fan from Idaho give a hoot? Is it Mets/Padres? Just kidding.

Brazil/Argentina futbol?
New Zealand/Australia rugby?
India/Pakistan cricket? Just throwing them out there!

Is it Lakers/Celtics? I mean the Bird/Magic back story has been almost annoyingly documented at this point. We get it. They kinda like each other.

HOW’S ABOUT A GROUP SKINNY DIP?

I know as much about NASCAR as I know about Sri Lankan cuisine, but there has to be a couple of rednecks and their pit crews spittin’ chaw on each other’s socket sets? Didn’t David Pearson and Cale Yarborough swap wives or somethin’. No, wait, that was Fritz Peterson and Mike Kekich. Never mind.

I guess after the Olympic hockey tournament, Canada and pretty much anybody is a good rivalry, eh?

Texas/Oklahoma? Ohio State/Michigan? USC/Notre Dame? Oregon/Oregon State? Heck there’s probably a high school game in Texas that draws fifty thousand!

Any others? Whattaya got for me?

West Coast Craig, tomorrow.

Until next week,
Rex

by Junior Blaber

BROOKLYN, NY - I was watching the USA v Netherlands soccer game the other day and was amazed when I how bad the boys in the booth were. These commentators were nothing short of awful. So, feeling it my duty to to do something now that I’ve found a worthy sports haven in MeetTheMatts.com, I petitioned The Matts for the opportunity to look into this further. They agreed, possibly because of the urgency of my message… But more likely because they had nobody to write Saturday’s column. Either way, let’s take a peek at a talent pool that’s as watered down as MLB pitching, and get the skinny on the Best & Worst Broadcast Teams in a Commentary On Commentators:

MLB
BEST: NY Mets team of Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, and Gary Cohen. As bad as the Mets were last year, these guys succeeded in making the game interesting, made us laugh and stayed professional. They’ve also got a cool site helping feed the homeless. CLICK THIS.
WORST: NY Yankees team of Michael Kay, John Flaherty and Paul O’Neill. These guys had the nerve to act like the Yankees were the underdogs against the Angels. I know it’s a siege mentality, but come on! John Sterling is even worse on the radio.

NBA
BEST: TNT Crew of Ernie Johnson, Sir Charles Barkley and Kenny Smith. They win because Charles can say just about anything while Smith goes with it and Johnson plays up the set-up man role.
WORST: The Knicks team of Al Trautwig and Walt “Clyde” Frazier. These guys are up there not cause they are not professional but it is because they work for Jimmy Dolan, who forbids any negative talk about the team. So, we get stuck listening to these guys and wonder what world they are in - cause it ain’t this one.

NFL
BEST: Easily Jim Nantz and Phil Simms. They can be kiss-ups at times - not faulting Manning or Brady when they mess up and sometimes giving too much credit, but I am very comfy with these two.
WORST: Joe Buck and Troy Aikman. They give way too much credit for simple plays and then downplay the great ones. And Joe Buck’s hair bugs me somehow.
NOTE I like the team of Goose, Moose and Stockton. Someone should tell the suits at Fox they have my approval. Cookie?

NHL
BEST: I haven’t seen a pair that can beat John Davidson and Sam Rosen (listen to his call of the Shootout in this). I remember him on the “Matteau! Matteau! Matteau!” call and that will stay with me forever.
WORST: Phoenix Coyotes booth. Never heard them but I have a blind hatred for the Coyotes because I think they belong in Hamilton or Waterloo, Ontario.

RUGBY
BEST: Brian Vizard and JP Dellacamera. They are pretty ruckin’ good - for the USA. They could be a lot worse… But Jim Dolan doesn’t have Rugby Fever yet, so we’re safe for now.
WORST: I was watching CSTV (College Sports Television Network) and couldn’t believe how horrible the pair doing the match was. The were so bad, I have erased their names from my brain like Bruce Wayne separated his brain from Batman. They need to hire Sue Simmons if you ask me.

The MTM Censors will love this one.

SOCCER
Let’s keep it local - the US&A - because there are too many worldwide. I want to say no one, repeat - no one, will ever beat the Telemundo/Univison guys. But of the ones in America here we go.
BEST: JP Dellacamera (again) and Tommy Smyth. These guys know how to call a game. JP is a seasoned vet and you gotta love the Scotsman Smyth, although he can be given a run for his money by Seamus Malin.
WORST: I will split this because they don’t work together, but individually these suck-asses bring their booth partners down. Color Analyst goes to John Harkes because he was what was wrong with the game I watched Wednesday. JP can only carry so much water and when he is with Smyth, JP is fantastic. But Harkes is impossible. Special shout to Julie Fowdy: Julie, shut the hell up! For play-by-play, can somebody please tell Max Bretos that he is not cool, nor can he make soccer any cooler. The game is cool on its own. Just call the bloody game.

Finally, here are some random ALL-ROUND Faves of mine:
Best Play-by-Play: None other than Mr. Lingerie, Marvellous Marv Albert. Eat that Bob Costas.
Best Color Commentator: Ace Hardware Hawker John Madden
Best Booth Team: Is this a question? John Madden and Pat Summerall.

That’s all for today, please offer your commentary and prep for the fabulous Rex O’Rourke, tomorrow.

HOLLYWOOD, CA - This week on MTM we’ve taken a detour during this post-Olympic, pre-March Madness, early-spring-training sports lull. Angry Ward took a good look at some Gym Dandies, causing some of us to run to the gym and some of us to run from the gym. This was followed by a soft, doughy post about some Sports Fatties, which got me thinking about celebrities and their addictions. There are PUH-LENTY of them in the news, and we need to recap:

NAOMI’S NUTS: Twas a shock to NO ONE that Naomi Campbell landed on the front pages for yet another hot headed altercation with someone unfortunate enough to have a menial job with Naomi (Ms. Campbell if you’re nasty). Naomi screamed at her twenty-seven year old driver and had the balls to punch him in the back of the head as he drove, injuring his eye on the steering wheel, before she fled the car. Seems that the past anger management classes Naomi took as part of a plea for winging a cell phone at a maid did no good. (Perhaps Naomi should call Angry Ward for help and the Mets might call Naomi to the bullpen.) I dunno, but ever since Naomi broke up with sex-addict and bASS slapper, Adam Clayton of U2, it’s been all RAGE for the red carpet and catwalk diva. Maybe she just needs a touch of the Tiger Woods Treatment to help her relax a little bit.

Speaking of TIGER WOODS: Tiger was spotted in Florida at home at a DRIVING range shagging some balls. Heck, beats the last time he was in Florida DRIVING an Escalade when club-wielding wifey found out who HE was shagging - Or who he WASN’T shagging?!? I guess Sex Treatment is done and we should expect Tiger on the links soon.

NOTE: Lent is over soon, so I’m breaking the Tiger Vow since, in a Robert Shapiro way, Dr. Diz decided to consider my Texas vow broken. Embracing the false accusation, for Dr. Diz, here are my top statements of late about Texas.

1) Texas sucks macka-hiya-ding-ding.
2) Texas is the cow-pie of the U.S.
3) The best thing about Texas is that it borders Mexico and we’ve thusly reaped the benefits of tequila and chalupas.
4) The Amazing Race Cowboys are the only two who should be spared if we could blow that sad excuse for a state off the map.)

Now, back to our show…

JOHN MAYER: Fairfield, Connecticut’s ex-favorite son (and current favorite douchebag) Mayer continues his addiction to negative attention. You’re cute John, but I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. In a recent Playboy interview, he dropped the ‘n’ word, declared his love of/addiction to masturbation and likened his sexual relationship with Jessica Simpson to crack-cocaine dependency:

“Yeah, that girl is like crack cocaine to me… Sexually it was crazy. That’s all I’ll say. It was like napalm, sexual napalm… Have you ever been with a girl who made you want to quit the rest of your life? Did you ever say, ‘I want to quit my life and just [froggin] snort you? If you charged me $10,000 to [frog] you, I would start selling all my sh*t just to keep [frogging]you.’ “

Jessica Simpson went to the media and expressed her “disappointment” with Mayer for disclosing details of their sex life. She even went on OPRAH. Yawn. In other news, Chicken of the Sea is still tuna. Thanks Jess.

OPRAH WINFREY: )1st-ever MTM Oprah Segue)! Ms. Winfrey is clearly addicted to food and media. Recently I caught a promo for her show with Kirstie Alley as a guest. Good lord… my eyes!! Honestly, Kirstie is SO BIG, she makes Oprah look SKINNY. (Read it again people, because that is what I said.)

KIRSTIE ALLEY: She’s now simply fodder for How big is she? jokes; She is SO BIG, she SHOULD have SATELLITES orbiting around her. But, I give her kudos for doing a USA Network show poking fun at her weight struggles - As if Fat Actress wasn’t enough. Did anyone watch that?!? Me neither… At least her being in the news allows for a total tangent on Cheers’ quotes. You’re welcome.
(ABOVE, LEFT: Kirstie in her lean and not as mean times)

CHARLIE SHEEN, BROOKE MUELLER & UNNAMED SKANK LOOKING TO CASH IN: Is there ANYONE on the planet that could need Sex Rehab MORE than Charlie Sheen? I say No. Yet, he checked into rehab for substance abuse, not sex, as a preemptive move for legal/marital troubles - which were recently compounded Two & A Half times by a woman claiming to have had a threesome with Lucky Chuck and current wife Brooke. Said Skank has threatened to tell-all about the tryst. Bad news, Skank: If the Perkins’ waitress didn’t get paid, neither will you because Charlie is like Madonna in this way; he’s like the village bicycle… everyone’s had a ride.

BJ & THE BOTTLE: Burt Reynolds has always had a problem with booze and drugs. No surprise there. But it sure surprised the sh*t out of me to hear that he recently had a QUINTUPLE BYPASS! More surprising, Burt had recently checked into rehab after having gone on such a BENDER that he fell and bloodied himself pretty bad. Seems that much damage alerted him to the fact that he might have an addiction problem. Jeez…. Way to have a revelation Bandit, at age SEVENTY FOURI’m a pill popper and booze-hound… ten four!!! In related news, Sally Field is addicted to Boniva.

We wrap up with my admission that I’m addicted to endorphins. Yes, those weird chemicals that get released after you work out. It’s true. I’d rather suffer the likes of Gym Dandies like Mrs. Flapjacks, The Lurker, and The Steriod Twins than not feel a good endorphin high. Yet while I’ve been known to take a spin class on occasion, I’ve got no desire to head over to West 21st Street in Manhattan to spin my wheels at TIKI BARBER’s new, state-of-the-art Spinning Studio. Where else can you take a spin class for the low-low price of $30 per class or $325 a month for unlimited classes?!? Upper West Side Suckas! Kids, unless Tiki is my own personal towel boy, I’m not saddling up.

Now giddy-up on outta here and have a good, addiction free weekend! (Except for your addiction to MeetThe Matts. And come back tomorrow for a post from Mystery Matt???

Piešťany, Slovakia - We’re here at the famous ancient spa, trying to get in shape and hoping to bump into former NHL star and current Bratislava resident, Ziggy Palffy. Ziggy, who does not play guitar, is very fit. In fact at 37, he was fit enough to represent his country in the Olympics and nearly came away with a Bronze Medal, if it weren’t for those damn Finns. This, of course, took place after he retracted his vow to never again play with Team Slovakia. He’s kind of like the Brett Favre of Eastern Europe in that vein, just not as annoying. But it’s Palffy’s fitness, along with Angry Ward’s column: Gym Dandies and our latest attempt to look great in our thongs, that got us thinking about fat people (other than us) and ultimately, about our Favorite Fat Athletes!

John Kruk. David Wells. Tony Gwynn. They are such obvious choices that they are basically now cliches for the 6-pack challenged professional athlete. And waddling right along with them, taco for taco, is Sir Charles Barkley. So, we’ll get that quartet out of the way and give you a couple of our sleeper selections.

Antonio “Six Fingers” Alfonseca. What’s got 6 fingers, no abs and made more than $15,000,000.00 in 11 years doing as little as possible in a job that requires very little??? Why it’s Mr. Alfonseca, Silly Goose! This guy’s great! He’s still trying to pitch, he’s got six digits on his left hand, he’s filthy stinkin’ rich and he’s built like David Wells - today’s David Wells! In the age of personal trainers, body-building stimulants, performance enhancers and body fat meters, Al-Fonzie is kicking it old school. We’re talking aging-Mickey Lolich old school. This guy’s great. You hear us, Omar??? Sign him to an El Duque deal, ahora!

Phil Mickleson.
Don’t argue, the guy is fat. He’s a couple of pizzas away from UBG (Under Belt Gut). You know the one we’re talking about - the one Bill Parcells, Romeo Crennel, Rex Ryan and Charlie Weiss have so fashionably showcased on NFL sidelines. Yes, Phil did lose a ton of weight a couple of years ago, but he’s packing it on again. And to honest, while we consider golf to be as much a sport as Curling, we can’t help but feel a tad disgusted with a guy that could challenge Tiger on a regular basis if he opted for a salad once in a while. John Daly, by the way, was too easy a choice.

Prince Fielder. Speaking of salads, Cecil’s boy is allegedly a vegetarian. That’s right, the junior Fielder is the Prince of Produce! We use the term allegedly, because most of the vegetarians we know are somewhat svelte. Replacement Matt, for instance, is a strict vegetarian and has no problem veggin’/chillin’ in his Speedo. No really. He does… Different Matt won’t go near him.

But dwell on that image later so we can wind this up with our Favorite Fat Athlete:

Oliver Miller. How does one not get in shape playing full-court basketball, 7 days a week, 9 months out of the year with super-fit professional athletes chasing you around?! That is a question for our favorite Ollie not named Perez to answer. For cripe’s sake, the guy has Oprah Arms (MTM trademark pending). He tried diets. He tried playing in the desert; Phoenix. He tried playing in the NBA’s Siberia; Toronto. He played in Greece. He even played in Harlem! The Globetrotters released Miller for “…showing no appreciation for what it takes mentally and physically to be a Harlem Globetrotter.” You see, folks? Nothing, absolutely nothing, could keep poor, deprived Oliver from repeatedly uttering his all-too-familiar:

“Please, Sir… I want some more.” -Oliver

Chew on that, Mattville… Cookie’s Corner, or a a facsimile thereof, tomorrow. Oh, and if you’re having trouble blocking out Replacement Matt sitting opened-kneed on your couch in his Speedo banana hammock, try staring at Serena Williams 2012 or Antonio Alfonseca’s six fingers… P.s… Thank you, Ziggy Palffy, wherever you are.

Serena 2012 resembles William “The Refrigerator” Perry.

NEW YORK, NY - It’s hard to believe, but there was actually a time, not too long ago when gyms were associated with athletics. Up and coming hoopsters such as Chris Mullin were referred to as “gym rats” running endless full- and half-court games on indoor courts while practitioners of the sweet science used to dream of becoming the next heavyweight champ, plying their trade in places like Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn. Though these pursuits still continue today, the term “gym” has pretty much been hijacked by an entirely different subculture. Though it’s a pretty far reach to associate the inhabitants of today’s gyms as having anything to do with sports, they are nevertheless a fascinating group. Come along as we introduce you to this cast of oddballs and weirdos one might only find in the bar scene from Star Wars. Ladies and gentlemen, presenting your Gym Dandies:

The Steroid Monkey: Let’s just get this one out of the way first. Baseball and Football have made this guy (or gal) instantly recognizable. Giant head, muscles of nauseating proportions, back acne, perma-scowl. Basically, this is the gym’s version of a drug addict. Don’t make eye contact and everything will be cool.

The Lurker: This is the spook who just stands and stares and waits and waits and waits and stares some more until someone using a machine or other apparatus finally gets uncomfortable and vacates their station. This serial killer approach is both incredibly annoying and highly effective.

The Tag Team Partners: These are mostly guys. They go to the gym together, they work out together, they shout loud encouragements such as “C’mon! One more you p***y!” at each other, they shower together, and they do all of these things… every… single… day. Basically, they’re in love with each other but are unable to express these feelings except with a friendly spot and another set. Anyone who thinks that keeping yourself in shape is a team sport is fooling themselves.

The Junkman: His main habitat is the locker room because that is where he can spend the maximum time naked in front of men of his own gender. This guy will dry his hair, read the paper, make a few phone calls and do just about any task imaginable before putting his underwear on. As I mentioned here before, I once saw a Junkman eat a sandwich in the locker room before donning his drawers. I’m sure there is a female equivalent to this guy.

The Hanger-on: This is the guy or gal who hang onto the control module of the treadmill for dear life as it rolls at tortoise-like speeds. Though this person often appears over-matched, they nevertheless keep plugging away in an effort to get some sort of exercise in their life. Can’t crack wise about that.

“Jane! Stop this crazy thing!”

The Resolutionaries: Like the swallows returning to Capistrano, this group of broken milk bottles descend on their local fitness palaces like clockwork every January. The only difference is, they are gone by February. National Geographic should do a special on their odd, short-lived migration.

The Filthy Fantasy: She’s a knockout. Far too beautiful to even be under the same roof as you and the rest of the sub-humanoids. Still, she’s there, so you may as well make the best of it and imagine making sweet, sweet love to her all over every square inch of that gym as well as exotic locales stateside and abroad. Don’t get too carried away though, you don’t want to be walking around Crunch sporting a full stinger.

Ma Bell: The only major lifting this clown does is the cellular-to-ear variety. Research shows that 100% of these phone calls are less-than-pointless.

The Canary: This pop star wannabe has the old ipod cranked up to 11 and may or may not realize that he/she is singing England Dan and John Ford Coley’s I’d Really Love to See You Tonight at the top of their lungs. There are no shortage of amateur Li’l Waynes out their either.

The Moonlighter: This person appears to be a dyed-in-the-wool fitness freak because you see them at the gym quite often. What you don’t know is that during the rest of their free time they are busy eating and boozing themselves into an early grave. Get close enough and you’ll smell the bourbon and burger grease coming out of their pores. Their gym visits are a futile attempt to help stem the tide of the oncoming, full-blown beer gut. Yours truly is a devout Moonlighter. Pray for me.

The Pig: What can you say about the pig? He’s a classic. Gargles and spits at the water fountain, leaves chewing gum in the cup holders, does the nostril hold and blow over the garbage can, and that’s not even mentioning the myriad locker room atrocities for which he’s responsible. In a way, he’s a an artist, you never know what level he’ll sink to next.
“Can I borrow your towel for a sec?”

Sir Talksalot: A close relative of Ma Bell, Sir Talksalot likes to engage his or her fellow gym patrons in inane banter every chance he or she gets. To these guys, the gym is their own personal cocktail party and you are their hostage.

The Workout Warrior: This person is at the gym so much they should be paying rent. They don’t have a full-time job but they most likely have a nutritionist. Pretty much any Hollywood action hero of the last 30 years can easily be placed in this category… except maybe Kung Fu Panda. Say what you want, Kung Fu Panda’s still in better shape than Jack Black.

The Surgery General: Typically this person has had so many sports-related operations that you can’t tell where one scar stops and the next begins. They’re still out there giving it their all but, basically, their bodies are being held together by spit paste and prayer. Short Matt being a fine example of this specimen.

and last but not least…

The Silver Superman: This marvel of nature defies all laws of physics and aging. They’re usually found at the gym at the crack of dawn bench-pressing the equivalent of 20 cases of prune juice or running on the treadmill like Death or Carol Channing is chasing them. The poster boy for these Gray-haired Gargantuans is, of course, Seinfeld’s Izzy Mandelbaum. “Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum! Mandelbaum!”

“You think you’re better than me? It’s go time.”

OK, that’s it for this week. I know this had very little to do with sports but, what did you expect? It’s March friggin’ 3rd, aka the sports dead-zone. Besides, my ulterior motive for writing this column was in hopes that Sam’s-a-Fan or West Coast Craig would someday pen something truly hilarious on the denizens of the race track.

by Dr. Diz

FORT WORTH, TEXAS - We like winners here in the good ol’ USA. Doesn’t matter if it the Olympics, politics, gymnastics or carnal antics… we’re addicted to being “the best”. That’s why a well know technique amongst editors to juice media ratings is to produce lists; best places to live, hottest movie stars, top city for bean burritos, best moves to keep your partner satisfied, best places to meet a skank who would make Tiger purr….

We’re not about Number Two. Unlike some cultures, like the Japanese, we don’t honor the battle well fought. F-that. We wanna be the top dog.

This year, however, people in the New York City area are missing a once-in-lifetime, Haley’s Comet of badness: The New Jersey Nets. In honor of the Nets and their efforts to become the worst team ever in professional basketball, Dr. Diz would like to give kudos to some other all-time losers. Here goes:

No loser list would be complete without the whole reason that 1969 was considered a miracle - the Mets were just so bad before. They still hold the record for losses in modern ball; an Amazin’ 42-120 in 1962. But it’s not just that…they also lost 111 in ‘63, 109 in ‘64 and 112 in ‘65. They were bad to the bone. Amazin’.

Marvelous Marv

The Columbia Lions became icons of futility in one of Dr. Diz’s favorite pastimes, college football, by losing 44 games in a row from 1983-88, still the 1-AA record. Things got so bad the band played the Mickey Mouse Club theme when they entered the field.

Unlike some other notably bad teams, they couldn’t even be smug about it -Vanderbilt gets smoked by a bunch of thugs from Alabama but takes solace in the fact that they’ll be their bosses some day. No such luck for the Lions; they got their butts kicked by Harvard, Princeton and Yale.

On the ice the ‘74-’75 Washington Caps were a joke at 8-67-5. The Caps hold the record for least points, fewest wins, most goals against and largest goal differential. Ah yes, Ol’ time hockey from back in the days with no helmets.

Which brings us to the Nets of East Rutherford then Newark then Brooklyn -maybe. The NBA’s worst record ever was the ‘72-’73 Philadelphia 76ers . The Philly Phanatic’s & Philview’s boys finished 9-73. The Nets have a current record of??? 6-53. They could… go… all… the… way… Yep, New York metro area fans could get a chance to see the Nets become the All-time Worst Team In The NBA - which is kinda cool. I mean, if you’re going to be bad, be really, really bad. And just think, soon Brooklyn residents get to give up their houses and small businesses to eminent domain so a few movers & shakers who vacation in The Hampton’s can build these clowns a new arena. But that aside, go see the Nets out in The Swamp they currently call home and witness their futility firsthand. After all, it could be history in the making.

Rich Guy with “Net fan” in The Hamptons.

So, let’s hoist our glasses and drink a toast this week to the losers; the ones who try and don’t quite make it: The kid always picked last at the softball game… The guy who consistently strikes out in life, love and work but keeps swingin’… The guys who shoot themselves in the foot but them hobble back for more… Because it’s sticking with em’ when they are down that defines fandom -or friendship - for that matter. And hey, we’ve all been there.

Angry Ward, tomorrow.

The great Chris Knight gives his musical commentary on
life in Loserville…

by West Coast Craig

THE 49TH PARALLEL – I wanted to stay away from the Olympics… wouldn’t it be great not to mention them at all on the day after they’re over? I wanted to write about something else today, like baseball. A new tell-all book by Mark McGuire’s brother Jay, a betrayal of Cain & Abel proportions. Apparently they’ve been estranged since Jay’s boy tried to tickle Uncle Mac and accidentally spilled hot coffee on him, so in what some might call some kind of rage, probably stemming from a fear of his skin turning even pinker, Big Mark swatted the boy’s backside… and now his bodybuilding brother—whom nobody really cares if he took steroids or not—is coming clean about his own demons, and cashing in on his bro’s name at the same time. Now there’s got to be some comedy in that, right?

But no, a classic hockey game for the Gold Medal has changed that. So, despite the wall-to-wall coverage the last three weekends and two wrap-ups already on this very site by Grote2DMax and Rexy O’Rourke, I’m compelled to comply again. What the heck, it’s my last chance for another four years.

Okay Canada, you’ve won this round. Yes, the USA is atop the medals board but we Americans don’t care about silver and bronze, and you’ve set a record with 14 golds. Yes, one of them was in Curling - where your team was led by Ned Ryerson - but it still counts and you’ll be happy to know it burns with the pain of a thousand spilled coffees.

It burns particularly because we down south here had started to believe we had something going; a young team, expertly hand-picked for character and chemistry and hockey genes (read: Canadian bloodlines, like Parise & Stastny). They weren’t expected to medal but then they rolled over all the powers, beating Canada a week ago and then the Finns like it was 1980 again. Sure, the ladies lost but they lost to a team that celebrated by smoking cigars and chugging Molson and joyriding on a Zamboni. There’s no shame in that.

The game lived up to the hype, even at 2-0 there couldn’t have been a cold Canadian butt that wasn’t squirming in its seat. Back and forth, big hits, near misses, an incredible finish with a pulled goalie that resulted in a goal in the last twenty seconds - How often does that happen? - and then Sid the Man, The Next One, gets off the shot that will be shown in every future Olympic highlight package. A true golden goal that has earned him a free Molson in every Canadian pub for life. This was the kind of game where you Canadians’ celebration was equal parts relief as it was joy, and you all know you have to enjoy it now because it’ll be all the tougher to repeat in four years now that Team USA is on the rise.

Four years from now when the games are in Russia, hopefully the NHL brain trust - who are thinking of not letting the pros play - will look at how great this tournament was and realize that taking a 2-week break every four years is all you need to promote your game in the best possible way. Soccer has its World Cup, it’s nice to win the Olympics but nobody really cares. In Hockey, the Olympics are it, and after yesterday, they’re it more than ever. Crosby’s goal was the kind of gut punch that stays with a fan base much longer than any victory. The kind that, even more than geographical proximity bragging rights, fuels an honest-to-goodness rivalry. I personally hope we cling to this pain the way Red Sox fans used to, with bitterness and anger and a determination to one day get back. And I hope they still have the NHL-sized rinks when we do.

Until then, enjoy the glow, Canada. Those great northern lights are a lot brighter for you tonight.