Ray Ratto

Tying a bow on ineffectual 2011 Winter Meetings


Tying a bow on ineffectual 2011 Winter Meetings

And so it ended not with a bang or even a thud but a faint cellphone ring baseballs Winter Meetings turned out to be something that happened to other people.

The Giants made an intriguing but mild move for Angel Pagan, hoping he is ready, willing and able to be their leadoff-hitting center fielder. And that was it. The As felt other people kicking their tires and defined the meetings as a great time to be a seller.

Well, hell. Seems hardly worth it.

We do tend to evaluate a general managers work by how much action he engaged in, not how much better the team might have been made. We are second-generation junkies that way -- we decide the meetings are a success if we had a lot to talk about.

And in that light, these meetings were a full-on crashing bore.

Sabean dealt a player the Giants really had basically cut bait on in Andres Torres, and a reliever he still had some use for in Ramon Ramirez, all to get Pagan, who could either end up to be Brett Butler good or Dave Roberts not. And that was that. He could not make even phony plays at any big names, which we all knew ahead of time, and most of his time was spent trying to figure out how badly Tim Lincecum and Matt Cain were going to hurt him.

NEWS: Giants get Pagan

Billy Beane, on the other hand, fiddled at the edges, mostly leaning back and waiting for the army of Gio Gonzalez suitors to pile their offerings before the door. No piles were sufficiently high enough, though, and Beane left knowing that unless all the cellphone satellites went down tonight, he would still be doing business.

NEWS: Gio preparing for 2012 with A's

Business that would be lots of fun for him because being the pursued is always more fun, but almost none at all for anyone else. The Winter Meetings from the wrong side of the door.

So, with the Giants unable to do anything other than take in Pagan and ship out Torres, Ramirez, Cody Ross and Carlos Beltran, and the As just waiting for phone calls, these three days in Dallas offered so little fun that our two little teams may as well as stayed home for all the good it did them.

NEWS: Sabean says no to Beltran, Ross

I mean, what does the Hilton Anatole have that Sabeans rec room doesnt? And cant Beane watch all the Champions League soccer he wants at home?

Thats the problem with the meetings. They typically promise so much, but only a few teams ever really get to play at them. Its mostly an agents bazaar, and neither the Giants nor the As are beloved teams for agents. The Giants, because their payroll is mostly tied up in players they already have, and the As because their payroll is mostly tied up in a vault in John Fishers office.

Of course, the back end of this delicious little farce is that the meetings dont end conversations, negotiations or deals. The Giants can still do something more radical than an out-of-favor outfielder whose own teammates referred to him as El Caballo Loco, and the As can dangle Gonzalez until every team in baseball kicks the tires a few times.

But for meaningful play, and the kind of action that makes the meetings such a tease, we got remarkably little. Fortunately the Warriors are spinning barely conceivable Chris Paul trade tales, otherwise wed have nothing but our thoughts, and that half-worked bottle of Old Overshoe.

NEWS: Warriors' Curry on Paul rumors

Which, in this holiday season, is not a bad consolation prize.

Ray Ratto is a columnist for CSNBayArea.com

The real issue that lingers now that OJ Simpson is a free man

The real issue that lingers now that OJ Simpson is a free man

O.J. Simpson is free. The system as it is defined by those who run it in the case of the Nevada Parole Board, worked.

But the issue that lingers is whether we can free ourselves of him. That system is far more amorphous, arbitrarty and essentially unfair. And in its own revolting way, it works too.

The O.J. market has always been bullish. The old cliché that people can’t get enough no matter how much you shovel at them is more true for him than for any other sports figure of the last 50 years. More than Tiger Woods. More than LeBron James. More than Michael Jordan. More than all of them.

And now his parole hearing, televised and streamed by every outlet except Home & Garden Television, proved it again. He will never not be O.J.

But he is also 70. He is also planning to go to Florida and be with his family, based on what he told the parole board Thursday. He has assiduously avoided the media in his nine years in Lovelock, and if his family is providing the support it pledges, it will do its utmost to keep him from our prying eyes as he enters his dotage.

There is nothing we have that can do him any good. We have eaten all the forms of O.J. there are, culminating in the Emmy-award winning documentary on him, and finally, his release from prison. If he is wise as well as smart, here’s nothing left of his life but re-airs.

So the question becomes not so much whether he can leave fame alone, or whether fame can leave him alone. Our national appetite is poor on the topic of leaving people be, let alone deciding enough is enough. The fame we make for people gorges, purges and gorges again, in a hideous cycle that demeans all involved.

In sum, O.J. Simpson can, if he is paying attention to the value of normalcy, end his addiction to fame. I have far more serious doubts about fame and its addiction to him.

Quietest time in sports yields a pair of idiotic fascinations


Quietest time in sports yields a pair of idiotic fascinations

Some time not that very long ago, someone in sports management who will almost certainly spend all of eternity bobbing for razor-studded apples in a pool of lava saw an opportunity in the phrase, “The quietest time in sports.” And decided to fill it with filth.
It is believed to begin right after the end of the NBA Finals, although that artificial start date has been extended through free agency now that the NBA’s principal entertainment vehicle is the burning of money. It used to be right after the Major League Baseball All-Star Game, though now it has been extended backward. And it ends roughly at the beginning of NFL and/or college training camps, depending on where you live and which of those two beasts you profess your God to be.
But let’s get back to the management succubus who has set us on the path that has led inexcusably to the current point. The idea that baseball no longer holds the interest or attention spans of the young, cool and inadequately trained in the value of money is now accepted as fact, and as any marketing nitwit will tell you, nature abhors a vacuum.
So here’s what we’ve got. Floyd Mayweather and Conor McGregor in what is very simply a lazy-stereotype-laden comedy tour that isn’t funny let alone even mildly convincing. They have both been on the stage too long, with a month still to go before the final shame-off August 26, where they simply enter the arena, stand with their backs to each other at the ring rope and spend 45 minutes trying to target-spit into the eyes of the high-rollers. Why the promoters didn’t just muzzle Mayweather and McGregor and use actual professionals like Key and Peele and Aisling Bea and Ed Byrne to work the crowds for a million per is simply a lack of imagination at work.
Here’s what else we have. Our idiotic fascination for Lonzo Ball’s two best Summer League games being achieved wearing shoes other than those promoted by his father/huckster as though his skills and intelligence are all in his feet.
What this actually is, of course, is people using Lonzo’s momentary and mostly microscopic achievement to call LaVar a tedious swine without ever using his name or his product catalog because he, like McGregor and Mayweather, beats down crowds and calls it entertainment, and people have signed on in a weird backdoor way – by finding reasons to like the son as a weapon against the father.
Thus, Lonzo Ball gets to learn how to be a professional athlete of note while carrying the load of his father’s impression upon the nation as well as the loads of those who believe that sins of the father must revert to the son. Popularity’s dominant property is its corrosion, and Ball will have to have very fast feet and well-constructed shoes indeed to dance away from the rising tide of a bored fan base with an ax to grind.
It isn’t as instantly gratifying a train wreck as Mayweather-McGregor, but it is a triumph of the new marketing strategy of wholesale idiocy that diminishes the watcher as well as the watched.
Neither of these events are in and of themselves interesting. Mayweather-McGregor is simply a kangaroo boxing a bear because circus entertainment no longer has circuses as venues, and Ball’s summer bears almost no relationship to the true test of his career – how to be the best player on a terrible team and then make the adjustment to being the third best player on a rebuilding team.
Ball has a longer shelf life because of that single useful component, but it is made less rather than more interesting by the presence of his father, who is now indelibly part of the tale at a time when most parents leave their children to find their fortunes by the virtues of their skills and wits.
McGregor-Mayweather has the sole benefit of being cringeworthy both before, during and after the event, a month-long smear of degradation that reduces all involved, including those who buy the fight, into penitents, into rolling apologies. It is an event in which nobody gets out with any shred of dignity, with the single revolting example of the grisly accountant-beasts who will take the Internal Revenue’s cut immediately after the fight.
And if that isn’t Satan winning, then you don’t know how to score a game in which Satan plays on all the teams at once and sees to it that the game is scheduled in the middle of July because some client of his told him it was the best time of year for personal and professional disgrace with a scoreboard on the end of it.