Yes, I was surprised that the Jets actually went ahead and did it. But I'm not happy about it.
There are lots of reasons to be unhappy about it. There are lots of reasons to be unhappy. I know I don't have to take them all seriously, but there are some tawdry parts of this already tainted draft process that make me even queasier than usual. Mark Sanchez was selected in a gesture of exceptional draft ballet in large measure because the Jets need a "marquee" player to fill their stadium, to justify their PSL's. And if the blather is to be believed, Shonn Greene was picked because his considerable potential will send a message to the unhappy Thomas Jones. Each of these is worthy of George Steinbrenner in its machinations, and because the Jets have never had a front office that works this way (and that may be a good thing) I am vaguely intrigued.
But it's cynical, isn't it? It's about seats and contracts, not about building a team. It's about short-term goals, not in building a future. How can Mark Sanchez, in a couple of years, possibly fulfill the financial aspirations of a limping football team in the most competitive market in America? On the other hand, the Patriots continue to think for the future, imagining the picks they might get in 2010. We worry about a contract dispute.
Selasa, 28 April 2009
Sabtu, 25 April 2009
Promises, Promises
It's been a while since I last wrote; I'm in the process of buying a house. The word "process" is appropriate. It's a little like a quest, a spirit journey, even a fruitless errand. There's negotiation, duck, fade, feint, rebound, masquerading and even presenting one's rear. The NFL Draft obsesses us because it has all of the qualities of this most American obsession with buying our dreams; it encompasses so many desires of beginning again and creating something entirely new. Most of this is an illusion. The person I will find myself to be on another day in another place is very likely the same person writing this in his t-shirt and boxers on his couch on a Saturday, waiting for the NFL Draft to start.
The Draft itself is filled with illusory promises. What's remarkable is that most of us who have followed football for a couple of decades, if not more, already know this. Most of the time, the draft produces careers tinged with moments of success yet doomed to early ends. The Jets Among Men (shameless, desperate promotion #1), my current life's work, seems to suggest that whether we were picked in the first or third rounds, our careers in football ("ours?") will be short. Football is all about attrition, yet the draft promises immortality to young men in their first expensive suits who put the caps of their new teams awkwardly on their heads. This moment will exist forever. Most of the time, it's a bust. Most of the time, we know it's going to be a bust. When JaMarcus Russell held out for as long as he did after being drafted by the idiotic Raiders, we knew all along (as we know now) that the entire affair was a waste of time.
It's an extension of the constant tests of loyalty we fans in football must endure. We must endure the false promises, the ridiculous hype, the personal shame, the recriminations with every pick. Who knows? This might be the season. No, it's not. In the balcony of Radio City each year, the locals in green and white show up and perform an impromptu opera of disappointment and hope, demanding what they know full well they will never get. If they did not feel this way, they would not be fans, let alone Jets fans.
We need a really good receiver, a really good tight end, and another really good prospect at quarterback if such a one exists after Mark Sanchez. Josh Freeman will not be the answer; I just don't believe a good quarterback can be drafted into the market of New York, except if he plays for the Giants. I would like to see us draft Brandon Pettigrew from OK State. I would also like to believe that Vernon Gholsten will make good on his promise at linebacker after one year with us. But I know it's an illusion. The thing with feathers strikes again.
The Draft itself is filled with illusory promises. What's remarkable is that most of us who have followed football for a couple of decades, if not more, already know this. Most of the time, the draft produces careers tinged with moments of success yet doomed to early ends. The Jets Among Men (shameless, desperate promotion #1), my current life's work, seems to suggest that whether we were picked in the first or third rounds, our careers in football ("ours?") will be short. Football is all about attrition, yet the draft promises immortality to young men in their first expensive suits who put the caps of their new teams awkwardly on their heads. This moment will exist forever. Most of the time, it's a bust. Most of the time, we know it's going to be a bust. When JaMarcus Russell held out for as long as he did after being drafted by the idiotic Raiders, we knew all along (as we know now) that the entire affair was a waste of time.
It's an extension of the constant tests of loyalty we fans in football must endure. We must endure the false promises, the ridiculous hype, the personal shame, the recriminations with every pick. Who knows? This might be the season. No, it's not. In the balcony of Radio City each year, the locals in green and white show up and perform an impromptu opera of disappointment and hope, demanding what they know full well they will never get. If they did not feel this way, they would not be fans, let alone Jets fans.
We need a really good receiver, a really good tight end, and another really good prospect at quarterback if such a one exists after Mark Sanchez. Josh Freeman will not be the answer; I just don't believe a good quarterback can be drafted into the market of New York, except if he plays for the Giants. I would like to see us draft Brandon Pettigrew from OK State. I would also like to believe that Vernon Gholsten will make good on his promise at linebacker after one year with us. But I know it's an illusion. The thing with feathers strikes again.
Senin, 13 April 2009
Harry Kalas 1936-2009
When I was a kid the first voice of football was and always will be Jon Facenda, a Philadelphia TV newsman who was hired by NFL Films to narrate the year-end roundups of teams and best performances. Facenda's normal vocal frequency was similar in timbre and pitch to the Old Testament's Almighty - immortal, distant and imperial.
But when NFL Films did their weekly reviews and Game of the Week, they used Harry Kalas' voice, and it was not until I moved to Philadelphia 17 years ago that I realized that Harry was actually the Philadelphia Phillies' broadcaster. After using CBS' Ray Scott for many years, Ed Sabol turned to yet another Philadelphia voice to describe the weekly action; Harry Kalas' voice always struck me as more genial, warm and conversational than Facenda's voice or Scott's. He was first a football guy to me.
Kalas died today while preparing for yet another on-air assignment for the Phillies, and though we all assume he died doing the thing he loved, it's no consolation to those of us who have relied on him, summer by summer. Some of my co-workers were weeping today at the news, and people talked about it at the end of the workday as if a head of state had passed unexpectedly. A few sentimentally speculated that Kalas was met in the Afterlife by his old sidekick, Richie "Whitey" Ashburn, with some nicely aged scotch.
Like Harry Carey, Skip Carey, Myron Cope, or Johnny Most, Harry belonged to a generation of broadcasters who were themselves larger than life characters. Their work in the booth was enhanced by the broad public appeal they had, for better or for worse. They were always partisan in their loyalties to their teams. And they were a far cry better than the analytical, statistically savvy talking heads of today's play-by-play whose impersonality or haughtiness (not just Joe Morgan's) are a product of a time when the players themselves seem so distant from the emotions they elicit in the fans. Broadcasters like Harry simply reflected a different time, a time lost to sports entirely.
Here he is, getting a chance to call the last out in the last complete season he would do for his beloved Phils, as they won the World Series last Fall. His cohort in the booth, Chris Wheeler, is really the funniest part of the video, but still, it was very rewarding to hear Harry get the call. The last time he had done the honors was 1980. We're all glad he had a chance to repeat before he was gone.
It was an unusual voice, one that sounded almost like someone speaking while breathing in. Yet, particularly as he aged,he took on a mellowing, reassuring sound that reflected, no doubt, the enduring patience of many losing seasons, many lost and miserable games. He was a colorful character in every sense, but Harry's sonorous play-by-play was a gentle current flowing in the background of summer Sunday afternoons, and he accompanied the air conditioner in our bedroom as we fell asleep at night; he faithfully wove together the July and August evenings, creating a routine of saying goodnight to yet another summer night, farewell to yet another summer week. Goodnight, Harry.
But when NFL Films did their weekly reviews and Game of the Week, they used Harry Kalas' voice, and it was not until I moved to Philadelphia 17 years ago that I realized that Harry was actually the Philadelphia Phillies' broadcaster. After using CBS' Ray Scott for many years, Ed Sabol turned to yet another Philadelphia voice to describe the weekly action; Harry Kalas' voice always struck me as more genial, warm and conversational than Facenda's voice or Scott's. He was first a football guy to me.
Kalas died today while preparing for yet another on-air assignment for the Phillies, and though we all assume he died doing the thing he loved, it's no consolation to those of us who have relied on him, summer by summer. Some of my co-workers were weeping today at the news, and people talked about it at the end of the workday as if a head of state had passed unexpectedly. A few sentimentally speculated that Kalas was met in the Afterlife by his old sidekick, Richie "Whitey" Ashburn, with some nicely aged scotch.
Like Harry Carey, Skip Carey, Myron Cope, or Johnny Most, Harry belonged to a generation of broadcasters who were themselves larger than life characters. Their work in the booth was enhanced by the broad public appeal they had, for better or for worse. They were always partisan in their loyalties to their teams. And they were a far cry better than the analytical, statistically savvy talking heads of today's play-by-play whose impersonality or haughtiness (not just Joe Morgan's) are a product of a time when the players themselves seem so distant from the emotions they elicit in the fans. Broadcasters like Harry simply reflected a different time, a time lost to sports entirely.
Here he is, getting a chance to call the last out in the last complete season he would do for his beloved Phils, as they won the World Series last Fall. His cohort in the booth, Chris Wheeler, is really the funniest part of the video, but still, it was very rewarding to hear Harry get the call. The last time he had done the honors was 1980. We're all glad he had a chance to repeat before he was gone.
It was an unusual voice, one that sounded almost like someone speaking while breathing in. Yet, particularly as he aged,he took on a mellowing, reassuring sound that reflected, no doubt, the enduring patience of many losing seasons, many lost and miserable games. He was a colorful character in every sense, but Harry's sonorous play-by-play was a gentle current flowing in the background of summer Sunday afternoons, and he accompanied the air conditioner in our bedroom as we fell asleep at night; he faithfully wove together the July and August evenings, creating a routine of saying goodnight to yet another summer night, farewell to yet another summer week. Goodnight, Harry.
Minggu, 05 April 2009
NY Jets By The Numbers - #35 (Part 2)
Billy Joe?
That's right. Number 35, running back Billy Joe. "Billy Joe what?" you ask. I know of a Billy Joe Dupree, a Billy Joe Tolliver, a Billy Joe Hoefert, the mysterious "Ode to Billie Joe" that got a name change when it became a movie. But a flesh and blood Billy Joe with no further surname of which to speak? The answer is the same as the one about the one hand clapping; William Joe, running back for the Jets from 1967 to 1969.
Billy Joe. It conjures a hayseed, a country bumpkin. Big ol' Billy Joe. That big fella Billy Joe from Ancora, South Carolina. Big Billy Joe with what looks like a walleye and buck teeth. What do you think of the big city, Billy Joe?
Well, Billy Joe actually played for and graduated from Villanova. Imagine what Billy Joe might have done at Alabama or Auburn had they been integrated? Billy Joe won Rookie of the Year honors for the AFL and then garnered two AFL Championship rings, one with the Buffalo Bills in 1965 and one with the Jets in 1968. By the time he reached Flushing he may have seemed a belated nuisance to most Jets fans since they had rooted against Billy Joe on the nights and days when he played against us. He ran the bench squarely behind Snell, Boozer and Mathis. When Boozer's pernicious corns and bunions acted up in the home game against Boston in 1968, Joe scored three fourth quarter rushing touchdowns in a 48-14 win.
And where is Billy Joe now? In the College Football Hall of Fame, that's where. He's been coaching college football on and off since 1972. This is our Ode to Billy Joe. He's probably the most successful Jets' #35 we've studied and certainly among retired New York Jets he is the most successful football coach. Funny name? Maybe. Maybe it's even worth a Booth Lusteg. Obviously Billy Joe was, and is, a born winner.
****
We can dispense with the niceties. We have three names here from different eras. First there's Ed Kovac. Was he your driver's ed instructor? Your State Farm agent? Well, he played two games for the New York Titans in 1962 in #35 as well. Then there's Del Lee. I'm not sure how many games in #35 he played for the Jets in 1999, but he's in there somewhere and there somewhere out there right now, somewhere. And Tim Newman who's our scab replacement in #35 from the 1987 strike season. I don't even know what position he played. I could find out, but then he crossed a picket line. Nineteen eighty-seven was also the year I went away to college, and my mother had two parting pieces of advice for me: 1) Go to Mass 2) Don't ever cross a picket line. Of course, I'm sure Tim Newman had his reasons. He wanted to play. Don't we all?
Dennis Onkotz always assumed he would, and we can't blame him for assuming it. Drafted by us in the third round in 1970, the Jets had such high hopes for him that they let him wear the uncharacteristic #35 for a linebacker. That was the number he wore at Penn State as he set the standard in the Nittany Lion linebacking tradition to come of Jack Ham, Greg Buttle, Shane Conlon, Andre Collins, Brian Gelzheiser, Lavar Arrington, Brandon Short, Paul Posluszny, and Dan Connor. The full story is here, but he lasted only half a season long with the Jets, at which point Dennis Onkotz - model for those who came after him in Happy Valley - broke his leg and was eventually out of football for good. Just like that. To be fair, 1970 was apparently a popular year (among many) for key Jets players to be on the DL.
Finally, Danny Woodhead. I don't yet know whether Billy Joe or Danny Woodhead gets the Booth Lusteg for sure, but Danny gets a place in a subcategory assigned him alongside Dicks Wood and Felt: a funny name with a funnier redundancy. Nevertheless, Danny Woodhead also gets the Scrappy, an award I just made up this very second for the player most likely to be thus described by a color commentator. The requirements for this award are that the man in question has to remind the fan of Wayne Chrebet, Bruce Harper, Scotty Dierking or Mike Augustinyiak, another #35. Danny Woodhead manages all of these things just by being himself.
But in the real world, Danny Woodhead #35 - who has never played a single regular season game for the Jets - is a kind of 5'7" legend in places where the corn grows very, very high. He is the pride of Chadron State, a star in Nebraska, where most of the great stars traditionally come from Lincoln. Right now in the heartland there are, very possibly, polygamous cults being developed in tribute to his extraordinarily metaphorical stature. Try to grasp that he owns the NCAA single season and career rushing records, which is mind-boggling. No one but our beloved team even considered him for 2008. But then he blew out his knee last July at Hofstra, and though our scrappy fans have a soft spot for the underdog which eludes spoiled rotten Patriot fans, it looks as if Danny Woodhead will probably suffer the same fate as Dennis Onkotz. Another Local Hero has gone over the side of the professional game's Tallahatchie Bridge. Pass the biscuits, please.
That's right. Number 35, running back Billy Joe. "Billy Joe what?" you ask. I know of a Billy Joe Dupree, a Billy Joe Tolliver, a Billy Joe Hoefert, the mysterious "Ode to Billie Joe" that got a name change when it became a movie. But a flesh and blood Billy Joe with no further surname of which to speak? The answer is the same as the one about the one hand clapping; William Joe, running back for the Jets from 1967 to 1969. 
Billy Joe. It conjures a hayseed, a country bumpkin. Big ol' Billy Joe. That big fella Billy Joe from Ancora, South Carolina. Big Billy Joe with what looks like a walleye and buck teeth. What do you think of the big city, Billy Joe?
Well, Billy Joe actually played for and graduated from Villanova. Imagine what Billy Joe might have done at Alabama or Auburn had they been integrated? Billy Joe won Rookie of the Year honors for the AFL and then garnered two AFL Championship rings, one with the Buffalo Bills in 1965 and one with the Jets in 1968. By the time he reached Flushing he may have seemed a belated nuisance to most Jets fans since they had rooted against Billy Joe on the nights and days when he played against us. He ran the bench squarely behind Snell, Boozer and Mathis. When Boozer's pernicious corns and bunions acted up in the home game against Boston in 1968, Joe scored three fourth quarter rushing touchdowns in a 48-14 win. And where is Billy Joe now? In the College Football Hall of Fame, that's where. He's been coaching college football on and off since 1972. This is our Ode to Billy Joe. He's probably the most successful Jets' #35 we've studied and certainly among retired New York Jets he is the most successful football coach. Funny name? Maybe. Maybe it's even worth a Booth Lusteg. Obviously Billy Joe was, and is, a born winner.
****
We can dispense with the niceties. We have three names here from different eras. First there's Ed Kovac. Was he your driver's ed instructor? Your State Farm agent? Well, he played two games for the New York Titans in 1962 in #35 as well. Then there's Del Lee. I'm not sure how many games in #35 he played for the Jets in 1999, but he's in there somewhere and there somewhere out there right now, somewhere. And Tim Newman who's our scab replacement in #35 from the 1987 strike season. I don't even know what position he played. I could find out, but then he crossed a picket line. Nineteen eighty-seven was also the year I went away to college, and my mother had two parting pieces of advice for me: 1) Go to Mass 2) Don't ever cross a picket line. Of course, I'm sure Tim Newman had his reasons. He wanted to play. Don't we all?
Dennis Onkotz always assumed he would, and we can't blame him for assuming it. Drafted by us in the third round in 1970, the Jets had such high hopes for him that they let him wear the uncharacteristic #35 for a linebacker. That was the number he wore at Penn State as he set the standard in the Nittany Lion linebacking tradition to come of Jack Ham, Greg Buttle, Shane Conlon, Andre Collins, Brian Gelzheiser, Lavar Arrington, Brandon Short, Paul Posluszny, and Dan Connor. The full story is here, but he lasted only half a season long with the Jets, at which point Dennis Onkotz - model for those who came after him in Happy Valley - broke his leg and was eventually out of football for good. Just like that. To be fair, 1970 was apparently a popular year (among many) for key Jets players to be on the DL. Finally, Danny Woodhead. I don't yet know whether Billy Joe or Danny Woodhead gets the Booth Lusteg for sure, but Danny gets a place in a subcategory assigned him alongside Dicks Wood and Felt: a funny name with a funnier redundancy. Nevertheless, Danny Woodhead also gets the Scrappy, an award I just made up this very second for the player most likely to be thus described by a color commentator. The requirements for this award are that the man in question has to remind the fan of Wayne Chrebet, Bruce Harper, Scotty Dierking or Mike Augustinyiak, another #35. Danny Woodhead manages all of these things just by being himself.
But in the real world, Danny Woodhead #35 - who has never played a single regular season game for the Jets - is a kind of 5'7" legend in places where the corn grows very, very high. He is the pride of Chadron State, a star in Nebraska, where most of the great stars traditionally come from Lincoln. Right now in the heartland there are, very possibly, polygamous cults being developed in tribute to his extraordinarily metaphorical stature. Try to grasp that he owns the NCAA single season and career rushing records, which is mind-boggling. No one but our beloved team even considered him for 2008. But then he blew out his knee last July at Hofstra, and though our scrappy fans have a soft spot for the underdog which eludes spoiled rotten Patriot fans, it looks as if Danny Woodhead will probably suffer the same fate as Dennis Onkotz. Another Local Hero has gone over the side of the professional game's Tallahatchie Bridge. Pass the biscuits, please.
On God and the Draft
My recent little Jets draft blunder item, from Toni Monkovic of the Times:
Dewayne Robertson was cut by the Broncos. The Jets moved up in the 2003 draft, trading two first-round picks, to get him at No. 4. That strategy almost never works. And certainly didn’t in this case.
(from Rotoworld):
Broncos released DLs Dewayne Robertson and John Engelberger, LBs Jamie Winborn and Niko Koutouvides, TE Nate Jackson, and SS Marquand Manuel.
The moves save a cool $22.2M under the salary cap. Robertson’s cap figure was $16M, a ridiculous amount for a league-average wave tackle with bum knees. The No. 4 overall pick in 2003, Robertson is 27 but may not have more than a season left in him.
Extra point: The Jets gave up their No. 13 and No. 22 picks to get Robertston. Had they stayed put, they could have chosen from among Troy Polamalu, Calvin Pace, Willis McGahee, Dallas Clark, Larry Johnson, Nick Barnett and Nnamdi Asomugha, all of whom went in the 16-31 range.
Monkovic also quotes Mike Florio of PFT on the relationship American football players (rarely the smartest kids in your college Psych class) have with their understanding of the will of God. Though I sometimes think the draft is God's curse on Gang Green, I remember that the Jets are just inept. God love them.
Dewayne Robertson was cut by the Broncos. The Jets moved up in the 2003 draft, trading two first-round picks, to get him at No. 4. That strategy almost never works. And certainly didn’t in this case.
(from Rotoworld):
Broncos released DLs Dewayne Robertson and John Engelberger, LBs Jamie Winborn and Niko Koutouvides, TE Nate Jackson, and SS Marquand Manuel.
The moves save a cool $22.2M under the salary cap. Robertson’s cap figure was $16M, a ridiculous amount for a league-average wave tackle with bum knees. The No. 4 overall pick in 2003, Robertson is 27 but may not have more than a season left in him.
Extra point: The Jets gave up their No. 13 and No. 22 picks to get Robertston. Had they stayed put, they could have chosen from among Troy Polamalu, Calvin Pace, Willis McGahee, Dallas Clark, Larry Johnson, Nick Barnett and Nnamdi Asomugha, all of whom went in the 16-31 range.
Monkovic also quotes Mike Florio of PFT on the relationship American football players (rarely the smartest kids in your college Psych class) have with their understanding of the will of God. Though I sometimes think the draft is God's curse on Gang Green, I remember that the Jets are just inept. God love them.
Langganan:
Postingan (Atom)