Giants' funeral dirge?

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Giants' funeral dirge?

I believe a New Orleans funeral is the way to go its essentially a party celebrating the life of the dead, with some miscellaneous burying involved. Beyond that, Im not sure what goes into it, but it sounds a hell of a lot better than just about anything else you do with the dead. Youre here, then youre gone, and you may as well leave em smiling as you pay the bill.Enter the 2011 Giants, about to be just as dead.With their magic numbers for elimination from the NL West race at 1, and the postseason entirely at 3, you may want to cling to hope, pigheaded optimists that you are, but if Im the Giants, Im making arrangements. Im having a wake, Im burying everything I can get away with, and Im serving beer and shots at the usual exorbitant prices.I mean, other than Cal football, what the hell else are they going to use the building for?In short, they need to gather up 2011 and dig a wide, shallow hole (going deep causes issues with the cove, and nothing ruins a funeral like flooding). They need to invite 40,000 of their closest friends, without charging them you know, a one-time freebie thank you that isnt disguised by saying Its for the Giants Community Fund, so cough up, suckers and do it down in true New Orleans style.Okay, San Francisco style. I forgot, Copernicus wrong. This is the center of the universe. My bad.In this hole, you place: The 2010 World Champion flag, or a facsimile thereof, in case you need to make sure all the flagpoles are accounted for. One cap, one T-shirt, one jersey, one hoodie, one set of black-and-orange argyle pants, one nightie and whatever other delicates they sell in the store in fact, one of everything, right down to the barbecue tongs, the board games, the foil cutters, the jeroboam of Old Wombat Select repackaged with a Giants logo. Like Noahs Ark, only for inventory. Team photos of the 1944 White Sox (record, 71-83) and 1985 Pirates (record, 57-104), the two teams whose average runs per game bracket that of the 2011 Giants. You know, as sort of a there but for the grace of God go thee kind of deal. And effigies of those who gave their positions so that 2011 would be the hilariously futile parade it was, to wit:1. Aaron Rowand.
2. Miguel Tejada.
3. Zach Wheeler.
4. John Bowker.
5. Bill Hall.
6. Jonathan Sanchez strike zone.
7. Buster Poseys ankle.
8. Freddy Sanchez shoulder.
9. Brian Wilsons elbow (part of the Charlie Sheen surprise Everything I Touch package).
10. Aubrey Huffs confidence.
11. Andres Torres joie de vivre.
12. Bruce Bochys genius (even though he probably exceeded last years performance flogging 84 wins out of this crew).
13. Brian Sabeans trading mastery.
14. One seventh of Pablo Sandoval.
15. The bat rack.
16. The batting cage.
17. The pitching machines.
18. The bats.
19. Anything, in short, that had anything to do with batting of any kind.
20. And of course, Billy Neukom, bow-tie and all. He was Icarus with flannel underwear, and paid the price that all minority owners who forget that they are minority owners eventually pay. They get buried in some outfield dirt and get run over periodically by Nate Schierholtz.We were going to mention Ryan Rohlinger as well, given that he had one at-bat all year and struck out in it, thereby providing context for the entire season. But that would be, well, gratuitous.Anyway, you put it all in a heap, let the folks walk by and pay their respects with little trinkets and mementos, or just some spit, if youre that disgusted. And then either bury it all, or if you can get the fire department to sign off on it, burn it and make the ozone layer feel your pain.Going out like whimpered curs just because their buzz got harshed is not the Giants Way. I know. I got the book. Its on Page 27, next to Even if you think you have the powers of Charlemagne, pretend you care about others opinions.And yeah, that goes in the pile too.The point here is this: They cant take your memories, unless the wrong guy ends up as President in 2012. But a funeral is demanded, and a funeral must happen. And remember, in the immortal words of the King of Swamp Castle after his daughters wedding was ruined by a mass slaughter during Monty Python and the Holy Grail:Please! This is supposed to be a happy occasion! Lets not bicker and argue about who killed who.In fact, that should be on a banner in front of the stadium for all of 2012.Ray Ratto is a columnist for CSNBayArea.com

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

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AP

A sports-related pie-fixing scandal? Hell never felt so fun

I’m liking this 2017 so far. Then again, after 2016, nearly any year would be an improvement.

Just this last weekend we got a flat-earth scandal that turned into a mock-up about media self-importance and fake news (yay Kyrie Irving and his impish sense of satire!).

We got the overblown Russell-Hates-Kevin narrative, and the faux Russell-Secretly-Loves-Kevin counternarrative, all because we are stunningly attracted to meaningless and utterly contrived drama (yay our ability to B.S. ourselves!).

We got the NBA All-Star Game ripped for having no defense even though last year’s game was, if anything, worse (yay short attention span!).

We got the Boogie Cousins trade and the national revulsion of all the thought processes the Sacramento Kings put into this perpetually rolling disaster (yay making Boogie and Vivek Ranadive household names!).

And now we got the Great Sutton United Pie-Fixing Scandal. Yeah, pie-fixing. Hell never felt so fun.

So here’s the deal. Sutton United, a very small fry in English soccer, got to the fifth round of the FA Cup, a competition in which all the clubs in England are commingled and play each other until one team remains. The big clubs almost always win, so any time a small club goes deep, it’s a big deal.

Anyway, Sutton went deeper in the competition than nearly anyone in the last century, a charming development given that it is such a small club that it had a stadium caretaker, goalie coach and backup goalie all in one massive fellow, a 46-year-old guy named Wayne Shaw. Shaw became the globular embodiment of the entire Sutton Experience, a jolly lark for everyone involved and especially when he ate a pie on the bench in the final minutes of Sutton’s Cup-exiting loss to Arsenal.

And now he’s been eased into resigning his jobs with the club, because – and this is so very British – there were betting shops taking action on whether he would in fact eat a pie on the bench, and he either did or did not tip off his pals that he was going to chow down on television.

He did eat the pie. His pals collected on their bets. The sport’s governing body opened an investigation into market manipulation by gambling – which is hilarious given that no fewer than 10 gambling establishments have advertising deals with English soccer clubs. Shaw was invited to quit to kill the story, and he took the hint.

Hey, dreams die all the time. But it’s still pie-fixing. Let that rattle around your head for a minute. Pie-fixing. Not match-fixing. Not point-shaving. Pie-fixing.

Now how can you not love this year?

Sure, it sucks for Shaw, but it serves as a series of cautionary tales for athletes around the world.

* Gambling is everywhere, and every time you inch toward it, you dance on the third rail.

* If you want to help your friends, give them cash.

* This is a horribly delicious way to lose your gig.

* And finally, fun in the 21st century isn’t ever truly fun because someone in a suit and a snugly-placed stick is going to make sure you pay full retail for that fun.

But it is nice to know that something that has never happened before is now part of our year. Pie-fixing is a thing now, as silly in its way as Irving’s flat-earth narrative was. And as we steer away from normal games as being too run-of-the-mill-fuddy-duddy entertainment, we have replaced them with sideshows.

Or do you forget how many people complained Saturday and Sunday that the dunk contest wasn’t interesting enough? How stupid is that?

Lots. Lots of stupid. But against pie-tin-shaped planets and pies turned into betting coups, how can it possibly compare?

We chase a lot of idiotic narratives in our sporting lives. The great What Will The Patriots Do To Roger Goodell story died like the old dog it was. We still try to flog Warriors-Thunder as a rivalry in search of better TV ratings when all the obvious evidence is that it is no such thing unless you think a couple that broke up nine months ago is still a solid story. We have Bachelor fantasy leagues, for God’s sake.

This would leave most normal folks in despair, thus matching their everyday experiences, but yin meets yang, and every time it looks like we are all barrel-rolling into the sun, we get Irving, and then we get Wayne Shaw.

In short, 2017 is going to be fun of grand surprises for us all. I look forward to the day President Trump tries to fete the Patriots and only gets to Skype with Bob Kraft and the equipment guys who midwifed DeflateGate, and Mark Davis in Las Vegas, just to see if he can get a P.F. Chang’s into the Bellagio.

Why not? This is sport’s year-long tribute to sketch comedy, and evidently everyone is signing on enthusiastically to replace lessons of morality and honor and equality and dignity and sportsmanship with slackened jaws and belly laughs.

So yay sports! Or as it is clearly becoming, A Night At The Improv.
 

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

Patriots win one for the ages, but where does it rank?

The price of watching Roger Goodell being booed back to the Bronze Age is a subtle but real one, and one that people will feel very dearly soon enough.

The last great cathartic Super Bowl is now done, with the New England Patriots winning the brilliant and decisive battle to be sports’ new evil empire. In doing so, it rendered Goodell a permanent and risible punch line in National Football League history, the mall cop who wanted the death penalty for littering, and in the words of the song “got what he wanted but he lost what he had.”

True, $40 million a year can make the dissolution of your public persona a reasonably decent tradeoff, but we lost the argument about who won his windmill tilt with the Patriots. It’s done, and he is now permanently and irrevocably a figure of ridicule.

But that’s not the only debating point America lost Sunday night, and while you wouldn’t think it given how much time we are willing to shouting at each other, quality arguments are not easily replaced.

We have almost surely lost the mindless debate about the best quarterback ever, because there is nothing anyone can bring up that the words “Tom Brady” cannot rebut except calling his own plays, and since that is no longer allowed in football, it is a silly asterisk to apply.

We have almost surely lost the equally silly shouter about the best coach ever. Bill Belichick is defiantly not fun, but he has built, improved and bronzed an organizational model that is slowly swallowing the rest of the sport. That and five trophies makes him the equal if not better of the short list of Paul Brown, George Halas, Vince Lombardi, Bill Walsh and Tom Landry.

Plus, Belichick locked up the most absurd response to a question in coaching history Monday when he said, “As great as today feels . . . we're five weeks behind the other teams for the 2017 season.” Even allowing for Gregg Popovich in-game interviews, the so-grim-he-could-make-a-robot-cry worship-the-process response has now become a cliché. If 2017 prep was so important, he should have skipped yesterday’s game, and he definitely should have chosen not to waste so much time on the trophy stand after the game when training camp drills needed to be scheduled.

Oh, and DeflateGate died. Dead. No zombie possibilities here.

We do have a meatheaded argument ahead of us about which championship in the last year is the best, which can be settled here.

1. Leicester City, because 5,000-1 is 5,000-1, and the whole world understands that. Plus, there was invaluable three-month buildup that engaged non-soccer fans.

2. Chicago Cubs, because 108 years is 108 years.

3. New England Patriots, because . . . well, I don’t have to explain it unless you have no useful memory span. “Down 25 In The Third Quarter” is the new “Down 3-1.”

4. Cleveland Cavaliers, because they slayed the first unbeatable Warrior team by coming from 3-1 down, and even as a silver medalist, it will always be an internet meme, which is what passes for memorable in our decrepit culture.

5. (tie) Villanova basketball and Clemson football in a tie, because they were essentially the same great game.

7. The Pittsburgh Penguins, because the Stanley Cup Final was devoid of drama or high moments, and only 14:53 of overtime. Feh.

But everything else is settled, and this Super Bowl will not be topped for a long time. Our current cycle of absurd championships is almost surely going to end soon, because “Down 3-1” has happened twice in eight months (three times, if you count Warriors over Thunder), and the bar has now been placed well beyond reasonable clearing.

Indeed, the only thing left is for a championship team to spontaneously combust on the award stand. But if they do so and ignite Roger Goodell along the way, that would be an ending America would cheerfully endorse.

But that also isn’t an argument any more, and yes, that includes Gary Bettman.