Rivalry Weekend Results: Many Small Victories, One Large Defeat

This weekend brought yet another chapter in the state of Florida's greatest rivalry: Florida State vs. the University of Florida (all apologies to the Florida Classic). Although the Gators won the main event, my beloved alma mater won enough small battles to claim an overall victory.

As I mentioned in a previous post, the FSU mens' basketball team beat the UF basketball team of the same sex, 65-51. This is the second year in a row FSU has upset a higher-ranked Gator team and the first time the Noles have won in Gainesville since the early 1990s.

Also on the hardwood, the FSU womens' basketball team defeated the UF womens' team, 81-78. According to the official FSU sports website, the win was just the second for the Seminoles in Gainesville since the 1990-91 season. Congrats to the 20th-ranked FSU womens' team.

Sadly, unfortunately, and much to my disappointment, the Gator football team whooped up on the Seminole football team Saturday, 45-12. In the midst of this horrific defeat, however, the Noles achieved two memorable victories.

1) Field goal kicker Gary Cismesia booted a 60-yard field goal, establishing both a new ACC and FSU record. I've seen kickers practice long kicks before games, but to accomplish a kick like that during a game is mighty impressive. On that kick alone, Cismesia should win the College Kicker of the Year Award.

2) Tim Tebow broke his hand during the game. I'm not sure how he did it, but while running in one of his 67 touchdowns, Tebow somehow broke his hand. While watching the game, I suggested Bobby Bowden insert a fourth string linebacker to take Tebow out Daniel LaRusso-style (sweep the leg!). Unfortunately, my suggestion went for naught. Despite his Superman-esque performance, knowing Tebow broke his hand is a nice consolation prize. Hopefully a replay will show an FSU defender gnawing on Tebow's hand amongst a crowded scrum and cracking all of his precious phalangies.

In conclusion, not a bad weekend for Seminole sports. One expected win, one upset, one acknowledged outright butt whoopin', and hopefully one permanently handicapped quarterback.

Go Noles.

Rivalry's First Round Goes to the Seminoles

For the second year in a row, Florida State defeated the University of Florida in basketball. Behind 20 points and 11 rebounds by senior forward Jason Rich, the Noles handed the Gators their first loss of the season, 65-51, and ended the Gators' 24-game home winning streak.

Although this year's game lacked the star power of last year's match up (which featured NBA first round picks Joakim Noah, Al Horford, Corey Brewer, and Al Thornton), the game was still a big one for both teams. For the Gators, it meant revenge, state supremacy, and a way to prove themselves against quality non-conference competition. For the Noles, the game was a must-win in order to re-establish credibility following last week's embarrassing losses to Cleveland State and the University of South Florida.

I'll admit, I tuned in a little late. By the time I returned home from my Thanksgiving excursion, the game was already in the second half and the Noles were up by 15. Throughout the 13 minutes I watched however, the Gators never got within 10. Needless to say, I was quite pleased.

Therefore, continuing my tradition from last season, I'm handing out upright tomahawks for what I saw positive, and, because the Seminoles beat the Gators, I'm declining to hand out any upside down tomahawks for negative play.

Jason Rich - I have watched this guy for four years. I never thought he could bring a double-double like he did tonight. He is not that type of player. He is an average college forward with slightly above-average offensive rebounding skills. However, with the loss of Thornton, this year's Noles have had to score by committee. Tonight Rich had the hot hand.





Controlling the Boards - Although FSU has seldom done well playing inside this season, the Noles were able to exploit the early foul trouble of Gator big man Marreese Speights and control the boards. Besides Rich's 11 rebounds, two Noles had 6 rebounds, and two others had 5 each. Overall, the Noles had 37 rebounds to the Gators' 22.





Ball Movement - I have a feeling this category will be commented on every time I watch the Seminoles this year. Last year, too often four Seminoles would stand around and watch Al Thornton attempt to take his defender off the dribble. There would be no ball movement and little to no movement by players without the ball. In order for the Seminoles to be successful this season, they have to move the ball around and find the open shooter or player streaking towards the basket. Tonight, they were able to do that, with guard Isiah Swann leading the way with 8 assists.



Overall, although there were mistakes and far too many turnovers, I was impressed. Hopefully, the momentum seized on the hardwood can translate into energy on the gridiron come Saturday afternoon.

A Tragic Coincidence

My most loyal readers probably remember back in September when I wrote about an outpatient procedure I had done on my neck. That procedure was done in Brandon Regional Hospital in Brandon, Fl. Sadly, this hospital reached national notoriety Friday as it was where former Major League pitcher Joe Kennedy was pronounced dead.

Ex-Rays Pitcher Kennedy Dies (Tampa Bay Online)

Kennedy was only 28 years old.

The Worst Thanksgiving Sight Ever

It was a cold, dark, dreary Thanksgiving in 1990. I had just entered my teen years and knew little of the world around me. I knew there was something going on in the Middle East with some guy named Saddam, I knew the Arsenio Hall Show was cool, I knew Lisa Matthews made me feel different than the girls in school did, and after Thanksgiving I knew my life would never be the same. That was the year my eyes saw something so shockingly putrid, so horrible, to this day I still occasionally awake covered in sweat.

My eyes have seen a lot in their day. From the familiar to the foreign, from rainbows and sunrises to some Internet video of girls puking on each other (don't ask - thanks, softball teammate!). Yet never have I been more disgusted and appalled then when I saw what I have posted below. Perhaps the worst thing to ever grace the small screen.

To think my family paid money to put me through that seven minutes of torture.

Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy your turkey, and remember, it doesn't matter how the bird got there, what matters is what kind of gravy you put on it. You hear that, Rob Zombie?

Sometimes I wish I knew nothing about sports

As a member of the male species, there are several subjects that serve as instant conversation starters when in the company of other males. Depending on location, any male can easily join in a discussion on sports, music, or sometimes politics and automatically be accepted among peers. While beneficial most of the time, sometimes being part of an accepted conversation on a "guy" subject can become a hindrance to fully enjoying a night on the town.

Personally, too often the antagonist in forcing me to regret "guy" knowledge is a drunken sports fan. We have all experienced the Drunken Sports Fan. The type of fan who insists on talking to you as you wish you were somewhere else. The type of fan lets you know exactly where he stands on every sports issue, whether you care or not.

The drunken sports fan creates a new unfamiliar set of problems for casual bar patrons like myself. Avoidance and escape, usually unfamiliar options for a male in a social scene, become the most paramount of notions. Whereas women have perfected the friend rescue tactic, sadly, men, or least not me, have not yet figured out how to bail out of an unwanted social situation. My Saturday night proved a perfect example why I must learn such a tactic.

Having worked most of the day Saturday, I didn't feel up for an exciting night out. However, late in the evening, around 1 am or so, I decided to saunter to my local pool hall for a satisfactory mix of barley and hops. I walked in, found myself a place at the bar, and ordered an adult beverage. This particular establishment features three televisions above the bar, two of which were tuned to the nightly edition of SportsCenter.

So I was sitting there, minding my own business, watching some highlights, enjoying my tasty brew, when in came two girls, a short blonde, and her tall, also blonde, very attractive friend. (Here is where I must admit I have a weakness for tall attractive blondes. It's my cross to bear.) These two girls apparently knew some of the other bar clientele and were immediately engaged in social banter. During her conversations however, I did catch the taller blonde sneaking a few gazes in my direction. Surmising the situation, I determined, if given the opportunity, a conversation between us was definitely in order.

To my opposite direction however, was a gentlemen completely engrossed in the SportsCenter broadcast. His enthusiasm for sports was easily apparent by his voiced approval or disgust at nearly every score that passed on the screen. At one point during his outbursts, he engaged the bartender on some aspects of football regarding my beloved alma mater. Of course, being drunk, he was obviously incorrect in his babbling. In a completely ill-fated move, I corrected him, not knowing I opened a Pandora's Box of non-stop drunken sports analysis. For the next 30 minutes, he went on and on about how great his school was (they are a top-five ranked school), how great their conference was, how tough their schedule was, and how horrible the BCS is. On and on and on and on he went. As I tried to edge my chair away, he moved closer, barraging me with more inebriated opinion. All I could do was nod, mumble "uh-huh", and hope the girl he was with would round him up and take him if not home, somewhere away from me.

As the alcoholic-impaired banter continued, I watched the tall blonde continue to socialize and eventually migrate over to a pool table with some friends. At least she hadn’t left and hope wasn't completely lost. And the drunken college football commentary continued. At some point, I thought to myself, he had to run out of things to say. But he kept on. Looking back, perhaps I should have excused myself and left for the restroom. Perhaps I should have gone anywhere. Secretly, I wanted the tall blonde to come over and rescue me, but it was not be.

Shortly before 2:30 am, I finished my final beer. My new found sports associate was still beside me, yammering on about his latest gripe, but the blonde was nowhere to be found. Although her shorter friend was still on the far side of the bar, the object of my admiration for the night was gone. Disappointed, yet slightly blasé, I paid my tab and left the bar. There, outside, speaking on the phone, was the tall blonde. As I walked by, she smiled and said "Have a good night."

"You too," I replied, not wanting to interrupt her too much from her conversation.

Ugh.

Damn you, Mr. Drunken Sports Fan. Why did you tempt me into talking about the Seminoles? Why was I not strong enough to plead ignorance at your sports "knowledge"? Why could I have not said "Sorry, I don't watch football. I think it is a barbaric sport played by overgrown Neanderthals."? Why?

(Yes, here is where I must admit my own mistake - as I was walking by her at the end of the night, I probably should have at least asked the blonde if I would see her again some time. But this story is not about my social incompetence. It is about how I am blaming my incompetence on a drunken sports fan that ambushed me and made me wish, at least for a night, that I knew nothing about sports.)

Remembering Ol' Dirty Bastard

His sound was an acquired taste. Those who like hip-hop liked Ol' Dirty; those with no affinity for hip-hop thought he was horrible. He was a rapper for the fellas, although he won over the ladies with songs with Kelis, Mya, and Mariah. He became a folk hero of sorts, a pre-cursor to Flavor Flav's VH1 celebrity. How could he be a famous rapper and still be on welfare, they asked? He was the epitome of celebrity ills, an artist whose character overwhelmed his real self. Where would he have been without hip-hop? Although it may have been his status that fueled his self-destruction, it was the talent behind that status that blazed an unforgettable path in hip-hop history.

R.I.P. Ol' Dirty Bastard
(November 15, 1968 - November 13, 2004)

Probably the oddest O.D.B. tribute you will ever see, by Buckethead.

Happy Vet's Day

Once a year, our country asks us to observe those who protect us. Those esteemed heroes who make safe. Those give their all for a cause and work tireless hours under the most harsh conditions to assure the job is done. We lay our hearts in their hands and pray for life. Hallowed are those who heed the call.

So to you, I say Happy Vet's Day.

Remember, if your dog isn't sick, thank a vet.




I'm kidding, of course. As someone who did their time in the Army, I can make jokes. So, for real, Happy Veterans' Day to all those who served. And to the rest of you, if you didn't visit a memorial, play bingo at your local VFW, or watch at least five minutes of Saving Private Ryan or any other movie where America kicks ass then you are a commie pinko bleeding-heart liberal tree-hugging terrorist and public execution is warranted. Have a nice day off.

5 Reasons why Delmon Young should win Rookie of the Year

Sometime this week, the American League will announce its 2007 Rookie of the Year. Barring any voting irregularities, the two front runners should be Boston Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia and Tampa Bay Devil Rays right fielder Delmon Young. Although I believe Pedroia will probably win the award, I have challenged One More Dying Quail of the illustrious sports blog One More Dying Quail to give five reasons why the candidate on his beloved Red Sox is more worthy than the candidate on my local nine.

Five Reasons Why Delmon Young Should Win AL Rookie of the Year

1) Consistency – Despite being only a rookie, Delmon Young played in all 162 games in 2007, being only one of two players to do so. Even if you add Pedroia’s 14 postseason games, Young still played more games in the 2007 season. This consistency in Devil Rays’ season of flux (or general misery, if you prefer) not only allowed Young to tally the second most at bats in the American League but undoubtedly made manager Joe Madden’s job a bit easier.

2) Clutch hitting – In leading all AL Rookies in RBIs with 93, Young hit a whopping .349 with runners in scoring position. Whereas many other Rookie of the Year contenders in the AL bounced around their respective lineups, Young spent a majority of his season in the 5th spot in the Devil Rays lineup.

3) Versatility – In order to fill the Devil Rays injury-depleted outfield, Young moved into center field for a month. Although far from spectacular, Young provided much needed flexibility in a time of crisis. Among leading AL rookies, only Reggie Willits of the LA Angels played more games at a different position than Young.

4) Fielding prowess – Delmon Young was one of the best fielding right fielders in the American League in 2007. Young’s 16 assists were 3rd in the league among RFs and, according to ESPN.com, Young’s range factor (Range Factor ((PO + A) divided by innings) was 4th best among AL right fielders. And according to the fine gentlemen of Thunder Matt's Saloon, he should have won a Gold Glove. Unfortunately however, the Gold Glove is awarded to three outfielders, not necessarily a center fielder, a right fielder, and a left fielder.

5) Overexposure – Last but definitely not least, hasn’t Boston won enough already? Allowing Pedroia to win AL Rookie of the Year would continue the collective arrogance of Red Sox Nation. Haven’t we seen enough of the Red Sox for one year? Hopefully, the voters give the Rays fans something to cheer for besides Kevin Costner concerts and Fred McGriff’s endorsement of the new uniforms, his first major public endorsement since the 1989 Tom Emanski videos*.


*Possibly not true.

Not quite a night at the GM Meetings

Following the success of last year's trip to baseball's annual Winter Meetings, I decided to once again attempt to crash the main stage and hob-knob with baseball's power brokers. This year my target was the General Managers' Meeting, a pow-wow of baseball's wheelers and dealers. While not as grandiose as the Winter Meetings, the General Managers' meeting usually lays the groundwork for transactions throughout baseball's off season.

Similar to last year, my trip to the GM Meeting began at the end of the work day. Although last year I was able to leave at 4pm and avoid a majority of the Tampa-Orlando traffic, this year I wasn't so lucky. Call it foreshadowing.

What follows is a chronological description of my night. No, it's not a diary. It's a journal.

4:58 - left work. Yeah, that's right. I normally get out at 5, but because I had something to do, I left two minutes early. Gotta love stickin' it The Man.

5:00 - 6:20 - listened to Playboy Radio on the way to Orlando. Yes, that's a plug. Playboy Radio is the only talk radio I listen to. And I am awesome at their dating quiz show. One day I might just call in.

6:25 - Arrived at the Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress Hotel and Resort.

6:26 - Stopped at the gate by a sweet old lady in a security uniform who politely asked me what my business was at the hotel. Rather than saying, "I'm a huge Pat Gillick fan and I heard he was here", I went with the more confusing "Umm ... a friend told me to meet him here." That always works.

6:28 - Unfortunately, the sweet little gate guard didn't let me in. She pulled out her clipboard and asked for his name. Here is where I should have pulled an Obi-Wan Kenobi, waved my hand, and used the Force to control her weak and feeble mind. Instead, she was persistent that I not pass the gate without either a valid reason or proof that someone I know (and who knows me) was somehow beyond the gate.

6:30 - Dejected, I made a U-turn and pulled away from the hotel. I was curious though, what lay beyond the gate? Is that the normal procedure? Did the hotel put this little old lady at the gate to protect the sanctity of the general managers' meeting? I've always pictured the general managers hanging out in a smokey bar, sipping whiskey, and plotting their next blockbuster trade. Perhaps it's more like their own Hedonism event.

6:40 - Instead of getting back on the highway and driving the hour and a half back home, I decided to see if I couldn't get into the Hyatt another way. Might there be a back entrance, one that doesn't have a merciless old lady manning the gate?

6:42 - Pulled into a nearby Chinese buffet. I was attempting my own Mission Impossible. This was going to be a Dead Presidents-type gig.

6:48 - Walked along a passageway separating the Chinese buffet from a hotel neighboring the Hyatt. So far, so good.

6:52 - Strolled along the perimeter of the hotel's parking lot looking for a way in ... a break in the fence, anything.

6:54 - Found a way in. Although most of the fence dividing the two hotels was at least six feet high and lined with barbwire, a small section was not. It lacked barbwire completely and was only five feet or so in height. This was my way in.

6:54 and 24 seconds - Looked at the fence and its surrounding shrubbery.

6:54 and 32 seconds - Kept staring at the fence. You know, I am not as spry as I used to be. Especially when I am still fresh dressed like a million bucks in my work clothes.

6:54 and 51 seconds - What if I got arrested for trespassing?

6:55 - Do you think if I got busted for trespassing I can get Peter Gammons to interview me from jail? Maybe some one else? I'll even take Skip Bayless.

6:55 and 49 seconds - Tried to psych myself up for a simple fence climb - a hop, skip, and a jump into the bacchanalia that is the GM Meetings.

On second thought ...

6:56 - Walked back to my truck.

6:58 - Felt a vibration in my pocket. Realized it was my phone. Glad I didn't try to sneak in. Fielding phone calls while trying to sneak into a world-class resort is probably not advisable.

6:59 - Talked to my mom. I'm sure she would have been happy if I told her I was trying to break in to a resort to meet with people from pro baseball. She would have understood. She's supportive like that.

7:03 - Got in my truck and drove the long, dark, lonely highway home.

I'll be the first to admit this year's visit to the GM Meetings was nowhere near as productive as last year's trip to the Winter Meetings. This year there was no Ozzie, no Omar, no Jim Leyland, and no admittance.

Bummer.

Dominant Bigs Key to Kobe's Destination

Since the beginning of the new NBA season, the majority of the talk in the league has focused on the possibility of Kobe Bryant being traded. Where is Kobe going? Who is trading for Kobe? What players will be traded for Kobe?

From the start of discussions, the frontrunners for Bryant's services have been the Chicago Bulls and the Dallas Mavericks. Last week however, both teams distanced themselves from the rumors. For all intents and purposes, this is for the best. Neither team has what Kobe needs to be successful.

Throughout his career, Kobe Bryant has only won when paired with a traditional dominant center. While on the Laker championship teams several years ago, Bryant was the "sidekick" to one of the greatest centers of all-time, Shaquille O'Neal. Current Laker center Andrew Bynum is not yet to level of Shaquille O'Neal and it is doubtful he will ever be. Therefore, given Bryant's past style and the dearth of powerful centers currently in the NBA, there are few places where Kobe Bryant can be traded and clearly improve that team's and Bryant's chances for a title. Thanks to the ESPN Trade Machine, I have created a few trade scenarios that would put Kobe Bryant on the path for a championship once again.

1) Kobe Bryant to the Houston Rockets for Tracy McGrady.

McGrady has had several years of playing alongside Yao Ming to fulfill the Rockets' championship potential. Unfortunately, the Rockets and McGrady have yet to win a round of playoff basketball. Adding Kobe to the Rockets would replace McGrady with a more dominating "alpha" player who knows how to play with a scoring center. Additionally, given that Yao's personality is less brazen that Shaq's, Kobe should easily get along with his new co-star.

2) Kobe Bryant to the Orlando Magic as part of a four-way trade.

In this epic four-way trade, the Lakers send Kobe Bryant and Sasha Vujacic to the Orlando Magic; the Magic trade Pat Garrity, Tony Battie, and Trevor Ariza to the Sacramento Kings and JJ Redick and Carlos Arroyo to the Cleveland Cavaliers; the Kings trade Sharef Abdur-Rahim to the Cavs and Brad Miller to the Lakers; and the Cavs trade Larry Hughes to the Lakers.

Confusing? Yes, very. However, this trade pairs Bryant with emerging Magic superstar Dwight Howard. Howard has only scratched the surface on how good he can be, and together with Bryant and the recently acquired Rashard Lewis, the Magic would be among the favorites in the Eastern Conference.

3) Kobe Bryant and Kwame Brown to the Portland Trailblazers for LaMarcus Aldrige, Brandon Roy, Darius Miles, Raef Lafrentz, and cash.

Although this is a lot to give up for the Blazers, it does pair Kobe with a potential dominating big man in Greg Oden. This trade also removes the Blazers' albatross-like contracts of Lafrentz and Miles. For the Lakers, they get Roy and Aldridge and, along with Andrew Bynum, the chance at a new younger nucleus.

4) Kobe Bryant and Ronny Turiaf to the Miami Heat for Dwyane Wade, Jason Williams, and Dorell Wright.

This trade reunites Bryant with former colleague Shaquille O'Neal. With their soap opera-like drama behind them, I think Shaq, given his age, would finally accept playing "sidekick" to Kobe's dominance. In return, this trade gives the Lakers a star on which to build upon in Wade as well as Jason Williams's expiring contract.


Each of these trades reunite Kobe Bryant with one of the few remaining talented centers in the NBA and provides Kobe with a role he is familiar with. A role that will lead him and his future team to championship glory.

Jay Busbee loves the Mets ... just kidding ... just the '86 version

As a result of a tied bet, both myself and Atlanta blogger/writer/connoisseur of southern things Jay Busbee decide to write our favorite versions of the other's favorite team. Unfortunately, Jay is a Braves fan so I had to write about the Braves on his site. And here is his take on the Mets team that absolutely won me over those many moons ago. Jeez, has it really been 21 years since the Mets won anything?


Hey there, Serious Tip readers. I’m Jay Busbee, head honcho over at the Atlanta sports site Right Down Peachtree. Being an Atlanta sports site, one of our obsessions is the Atlanta Braves ... which puts us directly at odds with Mets fans like Jordi here. So back at the beginning of this season, Jordi and I made a little wager, much like those cheesy mayor-versus-mayor bets. Whoever’s team won more games would get the benefit of a post from the other guy. Worse, the loser would have to write about the winner’s team ... in positive terms.

Well, the Braves and the Mets split the season 9-9. If either team had managed to put together a winning record against the other, they would’ve probably been in the playoffs. But it wasn’t to be, for either of us. (Tom Glavine has been spotted driving a brand-new red-and-blue Lamborghini around the streets of Alpharetta, Georgia, but that’s another story.) Anyway, earlier this week Jordi turned in a fine essay on the 1977 Braves, perhaps the most woeful team ever assembled.

Me, I’m taking the opposite tack. My personal favorite Mets team—besides the ones that finished in second place behind Atlanta, of course — was the 1986 squad. Thanks to legions of annoying Red Sox fans — who make me want to embrace Mets fans at this point — the 1986 season is known at least as much for “it gets behind the bag!” as it was for the Mets.

And that’s a damn shame, because the 1986 Mets were — oh my lord, I can’t believe I’m typing this — one of the coolest teams of all time.

Look at that team: Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, a couple of young phenoms who were already being sized up for Hall of Fame plaques—and, based on what they’d already demonstrated, deservedly so. Keith Hernandez, probably the best defensive first baseman of all time. (Before baseball ruled it illegal, he used to stand in foul ground to make it easier to lay tags on runners leading off.) Gary Carter and Ray Knight were among the best in the game at their respective positions. Lenny Dykstra, Mookie Wilson, and Wally Backman, young loons who were every bit as talented as they thought they were. And Davey Johnson, a manager who had no problem declaring right from the start that this team was going to kick in the teeth of the rest of the league ... and proceeded to inspire his team to do just that.

The team began with a 20-4 record in April, and — much like the 2007 Patriots — didn’t let up at any point during the season. They got into no less than four bench-clearing brawls over the season; in July, so many players got thrown out of the game that Johnson had to put nutjob pitcher Roger McDowell in right field. The team finished with an astonishing 108 wins, running away from the league and fooling the rest of the sporting world into thinking that collections of wacko personalities could actually gel into a cohesive unit.

But as impressive as the regular season was, it couldn’t compare to the ’86 Mets’ postseason—particularly the two Game 6s. In Game 6 of the NLCS, facing the Astros, the Mets found themselves down 3-0 after the first inning, and wouldn’t tie up the game until the ninth. The game ran until the 16th, when the Mets put three across in the top of the inning, the Astros followed with two in the bottom, and Orosco closed the door with the winning run on base.

Game 6 of the World Series saw the Mets down to their final strike before Mookie hit that fateful slow roller up the line. Of course, the Red Sox still had a chance to win the Series in Game 7, but much like the Bartman fiasco with the Cubs nearly two decades later, the Sox were dead before the first pitch of Game 7 was ever thrown. (Interesting side note: I was at the 1993 Old-Timers’ Game befre the All-Star Game in Baltimore. Buckner was playing first. Somebody hit a slow roller up the line, Buckner fielded it flawlessly, and you could hear 50,000 people go “ohhhhh ...” — as in, “Why couldn’t he have done that seven years ago?”

Anyway, the ’86 Mets were a once-in-a-lifetime collection of insanity, and sure enough, they all fractured not long afterward. Strawberry, Gooden, and Hernandez saw their careers affected or derailed by drugs. Dykstra achieved more fame as the sparkplug of the grubby 1993 NL Champion Phillies, and is now — I swear this is true, here’s the link — a stock-picking columnist for TheStreet.com. Hernandez and McDowell were the first and second spitters in that famous Seinfeld episode, and McDowell is now the mild-mannered pitching coach of the Braves.

So raise a beer — or something stronger — to the 1986 New York Mets. (Check out Jeff Pearlman’s The Bad Guys Won! for far more on the subject.) They were baseball’s last great team of knuckleheads that actually won anything. (The 2004 Red Sox were self-promoting, self-aware knuckleheads, which is infinitely worse.) In a world of 24-hour sports scrutiny, we’ll never see their like again, and that’s a damn shame.