Tim Tebow stealing Alex Smith's backup thunder


Tim Tebow stealing Alex Smith's backup thunder

Alex Smith should be the Tim Tebow of 2012. He should be the frustrated backup quarterback everyone is talking about to the point that we are sick to death of the very mention of his name. He’s the one who should be trying to straddle both sides of the “I hate my coach/I love my coach” line. He’s the one who should look one minute like some crazed Trotskyite trying to overthrow the oppressors keeping him down and then the calm, Zenlike I-just-want-to-be-a-good-teammate guy the next.

But no. Once again, Smith has been robbed of a legacy by circumstances only barely under his control.

I mean, who has a better case to make here – Smith or Tebow? You know the answer to that one. Even if you don’t like Smith and never liked from the moment he wasn’t Aaron Rodgers, you know the answer to that.

But no. Smith is just a competent quarterback who was at the height of his statistical powers when he was demoted for the crime of insufficient up-side, not enough game-breakery in his repertoire or . . . well, not having enough letters in his surname, I guess.

Tebow is the mythical centaur who can do everything but, well, gallop, which makes him a pretty useless centaur when you think about it. He’s a backup’s backup who can’t get reps even though he is the owner’s pet because he’s a lousy practice player whose quarterbacking skills are universally dismissed as being substandard for the level at which he is playing, and his supporters are desperately trying to make that an argument in his favor too.

And Tebow is again the main topic of NFL blathersation as he tries to transition slowly from one rotten football team this year to another rotten football team next year while taking almost no snaps.

Tebow has managed (or maybe even stage-managed, if you are of a more conspiratorial bent) to become The Most Interesting Man In The World without a single bottle of beer to his name, and the NFL media gaggle have fallen for the entire shameful tableau.

Either he is a cunning huckster getting over on people who apparently enjoy the feeling of being duped, or he is just a media creation who is too polite to ask said medioids to stop trivializing whatever the hell it is he does have.

But he is no victim here, and now that he has denied stories saying he declined to be used in the latest pointless New York Jets exercise, he is also not a rabble-rouser. He is . . . well, an athletic form of Kardashian, famous solely for being famous because someone decided long ago that he should be famous.

In the meantime, Alex Smith, who actually has cause to be bothered relentlessly by national media types, is essentially being ignored as backup quarterbacks typically are. That’s what happens with football players. Which Tebow stopped being long ago.

This seems, well, stupid. Even by the usual subterranean media standards, this seems stupid.

Tebow has been declared redundant by the coach of a bad football team. Great. That makes him John Skelton. Except that he has played almost not at all, which makes him Tyler Thigpen. It surely doesn’t make him Alex Smith – not by a light year, it doesn’t.

So we can choose to turn Smith’s life into a living hell, yammering incessantly about him to the point where people want their heads run over by station wagons just to make the noise stop. Or we can stop spasmodically jerking every time Tebow’s name is mentioned.

And we’re sure as hell not going to do Option B, because the subject of Tebow has been a monument to tedium for nearly a year now. Thus, there’s only thing to do.

Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith.

Tell us when you can’t stand it any more. Let us know when you’ve had all you can stand. E-mail us with your craving to never hear of him again. And then we’ll do this:

Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith. Alex Smith.

Apparently it’s what the audience wants. We just have to figure out a way to change the name – to someone far more deserving of our gift for annoying repetition than THE UNUSED THIRD STRING QUARTERBACK OF THE RIDICULOUS NEW YORK FREAKING JETS, WHO IF HE'S VERY LUCKY NEXT YEAR MAY BECOME THE FIRST-STRING QUARTERBACK OF THE SLIGHTLY LESS RIDICULOUS JACKSONVILLE FREAKING JAGUARS.

Oh. I'm sorry. I meant to type Tim Tebow. It just came out the other way.

A's stripped of little-engine-that-could classification at a bad time


A's stripped of little-engine-that-could classification at a bad time

As rumored over the past two months, Major League Baseball just lowered the Oakland Athletics’ revenue by $34 million, and now all the other developments of the past few weeks have finally become a call to arms by an organization that has always been strident pacifists when it comes to money.

In other words, The Little Engine That Occasionally Could has now been stripped of its little-engine classification, and the conditions that allowed them to play the cute little underdog are gone. No more waiting for more clement economic circumstances, or a more favorable political climate, or for the ever-nebulous “future” which the A’s always dangled before its dwindling fan base.

That was the news of Wednesday. Thursday, reports from ESPN’s Jim Trotter indicated that San Diego Chargers owner Dean Spanos is going to swallow his pride to exercise his option to join Stan Kroenke in Los Angeles, thus reducing Mark Davis’ viable options to Las Vegas and the tender mercies of the NFL, or Oakland and the tender mercies of whoever decides to tackle the problem of a new football-atorium.

In other words, push and shove are now jockeying for position in what is expected to be a crash.

First, the A’s.

With the news that Major League Baseball is going to hack the team’s revenue sharing check by 25, 50, 75 and then 100 percent over the next four years, the margin of error for new front man Dave Kaval to get a stadium built has been reduced to those four years. He is following the dictates of his boss, the persistently hologrammatic John Fisher, who essentially shoved Lew Wolff out the door for preaching San Jose and then caution.

The A’s don’t want to share anything with the Raiders, which rules out a Coliseum site. They have investigated Howard Terminal, which is not without its issues. And there is a new darkhorse site, the land around Laney College which, in a tart bit of irony, is the site of the Raiders’ first Oakland home, Frank Youell Field.

The city and county are in the early stages of a deal to sell the Coliseum land to a group faced by Ronnie Lott and the money-moving Fortress group, and get out of the landlord business entirely. It has pledged somewhere between $190 and $200 million in infrastructure improvements, though in the case of two stadia, the question of whether that amount is split remains to be politicized.

But the real point here is that the Gordian knot that is Oakland’s weird hold on its franchises remains tightly raveled. The Fortress announcement was supposed to be a point of clarity, but the revenue sharing news and now the Chargers-to-L.A. rumors have returned chaos to its usual position at the tip of the food chain.

And chaos makes for hasty decisions, and hasty decisions are often regretted. But hey, what’s life without rich people awash in regrets?

The new developments ratchet up the pressure on the City of Oakland and Alameda County to decide what support – if any – to provide a new A’s stadium, and coincidentally what support – if any – can be provided to the Raiders if they are forced to stay in Oakland by the NFL.

It even ratchets up the pressure on the NFL owners to decide among themselves whether their actual end-game goal – to have the Raiders controlled by someone other than Mark Davis – is better served by allowing him to move his team to Las Vegas or denying him his escape route.

But now for the first time there are time constraints – a few months for Mark Davis, a few years for John Fisher and Dave Kaval. The principles of subsidized Moneyball are now conjoined with the principles of Darwinism, and as the A’s have had innovate-or-die thrust upon them, the Raiders have approached the day of reckoning they’ve been desperately kicking down the road since Al Davis’ death. Plus, the political structures of Oakland and Alameda County will catch the holiest of hells either way, and probably across the board.

But as Paul Weller once wrote, “That’s entertainment.” Find shelter, children. The acrid smell of roasting money is in the wind.

Defying common sense makes another official look inhuman


Defying common sense makes another official look inhuman

Officials are a pet cause of mine, since they are uniquely hired and set up for daily failure as a condition of having the job at all. They are given a supervisory role against a group of mesomorphs running, jumping, colliding and athletick-ing all over the place, only so that they can interpret a rulebook written in Cambodian script in such a way that he or she angers everyone involved, and is supported by none of the people who gave him the rulebook to defend.

But sometimes, despite all this, officials need to be left alone to apply common sense in direct defiance of the dictates of the bloated swine who made the rulebook a tool of the socially ignorant.

And no, I am not talking about Doc Rivers snapping like a stretched bobblehead the other night after Ken Mauer tossed him from the Los Angeles Clippers-Brooklyn Nets game for being geographically inappropriate with fellow official Lauren Holtkamp (he crossed the midcourt line, and curb your dirty minds). Screw him. He had it coming.

No, this is about Frank Schneider, who refereed the otherwise unremarkable Paris Saint Germain-Angers match in Ligue 1, the top division of French soccer, and felt compelled to yellow-card PSG goalscorer Edinson Cavani for doing this.

For you link-averse weenies, Cavani scored a goal and then took off his shirt to reveal an undershirt that read “ACE FUERZA” in support of the Brazilian soccer team Chapecoense, the team involved in the plane wreck that killed 77 of 81 passengers, including all but a few of the team’s players and staff en route to the championship match of the Copa Sudamericana in Colombia against Atletico Nacional.

It was a thoughtful gesture, one we want our athletes to produce to show that they are not just mercenaries with expensively shod feet. It was a credit to Cavani, who is Uruguayan and who knew none of the players involved. He did it to be a human being.

And Schneider knew that. But the rules say he had to give Cavani a yellow card for removing his shirt as an act of celebration or in this case, sympathy, and if Schneider had ignored it, his supervisors would have punished him knowing full well that ignoring it was exactly the correct and decent thing to do.

This right here is one more reason why people hate officials, even more than they used to. They are not allowed to apply their own common sense to a situation that demands it, and if honoring fellow athletes who died in an accident doesn’t demand the common sense of saying, “Heartwarming thought there, Scooter. You’re a good lad. Run and frolic with the other woodland creatures, unconcerned with any notion of punitive action.”

Maybe Schneider walked up to him as he presented the card and said, “Listen, this is crap. You know it and I know it, and I will back your play in the game report, but I have to do this. Please find it in your heart to forgive my bureaucratic obligations.”

That’s not the zenith of understanding as we would wish it, but it would be a way to try and shield Cavani from the withered arm of the law.

Or maybe Schneider said, “I give this card to you in my role as a strident and iron-willed defender of mindless regulations. I spurn you as I would spurn a rabid wolf.”

I don’t know. All I know is, Schneider ends up looking stupid for carding Cavani for supporting his soccer-playing brethren, and officials across the globe cry out as one, “You put him in a ridiculous position, you suit-wearing filth. Where is your compassion? Where is your dignity? Why can’t we line up in an orderly fashion and kick you squarely in the groin 30 to 70 times?”

And a decent human instinct is stamped out as though it were caught stealing office supplies.

You can extend this lesson as far as you wish, including the No Fun League’s old-white-guys fetishistic ban on post-touchdown self-expression, but right here is where that sort of mockable nonsense starts. People died, some of them soccer players. A fellow soccer player honored them on the field of play without disrupting the game itself. He was sanctioned. This is idiocy.

But Doc Rivers getting flipped in Brooklyn? Sorry. There’s only so far we can go with this, and in this case, well, to quote the old philosopher, “Nice tantrum, Glenn.”