Ratto: Rowand escapes dead player walking label


Ratto: Rowand escapes dead player walking label

Ray RattoCSNBayArea.com

Just so we all understand each other, what the Giants provided Friday in their 5-4 12-inning pie fight victory over the St. Louis Cardinals was not torture. Torture is dead as a concept, and as a word. Move on, citizens.

RECAP: Wild home opener -- Giants walk off vs. Cardinals

If it has a name, and it should given the exertion you put into holding onto Torture a year later, it should be simply Rowand.

Yes, for A. Ryan Rowand, the 24 million piata who, if he is being greased to disappear this season, is making it hard for the Giants and their barely-sated clientele to dismiss him so easily. He still has some bite, and a hunk of your leg.

Sure, you could go with Bochy, since he and St. Louis manager Tony La Russa engaged in a game-long three-dimensional chess thrash that emptied both dugouts of available position players except the appendectomy victim (Matt Holliday) and the invisible catcher (Eli Whiteside).

Or you could with Wilson, for the Giant reliever who engaged in (and ultimately lost) an extended life-and-death struggle with home plate umpire Bruce Dreckman. He fought Dreckmans strike zone with indifferent results and thanked his after he left the game with a valedictory that only Cee-Lo Green could love.

But theyve been done to death the hat, the beard, all the props even the most ardent Gallagher fan could embrace.

Save for Rowand, whose only real prop, if you can conjure it, would be a hammock, which is what he looks like hes laying upon in the batters box. And somehow, Fear The Hammock doesnt translate.

No, only Rowand will do, and since you all had too good a day to dare call it torture, Rowand it shall be.

After all, it was Rowand who won last years home opener in the 13th with an infield single, moments after hitting Atlanta catcher Brian McCann with a swing as he tried to throw Juan Uribe out at second.And it was he who walled a 1-0 fastball from Brian Tallet with the bases loaded to score Nate Schierholtz in the bottom of the 12th Friday, making him the first player since 1977 to have successive Opening Day walk-off hits. If you guessed Toby Harrah of the Rangers as the previous one, go get yourself a drink. And then go out on a date. Youre clearly too focused on baseball.But never mind the game-winner. He also nearly won the game in the 10th with a hard smash that went right to left fielder Allen Craig, playing third in one of St. Louis manager Tony La Russas craftier gimmicks, the five-man infield. It is Rowands luck that Craig made a diving stop and forced a rundown to retire Andres Torres.But it is Rowands luck in 2011 that he got another crack at it, and delivered.If thats a metaphor, then so be it.Rowand has never found his happy place in San Francisco, from the moment when he signed the 60 million contract that rendered him a dollar sign rather than a player. He became a focus for all the Giants miscalculations, and his biggest crime was fighting against the tide too hard and too inflexibly. The more he fought, the worse it got, and the worse it got, the more he fought until he became a dead ballplayer walking.His name brought scorn, derision and demands that the Giants break a record for most salary eaten in one contract, which they have not done. That of course led to guesses as to how much salary they would eat, which led to guesses about when it would time to eat that salary, and when Cody Ross rises from the disabled list that speculation will rise again.But Friday was a moment when even his most strident critics had to acknowledge that there is still value in him, that he is not yet a spent force, that he is not a living example of worse money after bad. Maybe it wont last long, but it may have lasted long enough to give the Giants a battle cry for The Year After.Rowand. For the guy who cant be killed no matter how many people try.And if Rowand wont do, maybe the word that best describes his time here as a compromise candidate.Tortured.I mean, at least youll save on the shirts, right?

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


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.