Tag Archives: sadger on 100 thousand trillion

Au revoir, childhood love of Lenny Dykstra

EDITOR’S NOTE: As I’ve been exhuming this blog over the past couple of days, I’ve found that I had a couple handfuls of draft posts saved up.  Some of them never went live for totally understandable reasons — they needed a Photoshop job that I never got to, a joke needed tweaking, etc. — and this was one of them.  Had the video, but never wrote what I wanted to.  So, here it is, hopefully as awkward and fun as I’d initially hoped. – DD

Seems like a pretty chill video of Roger McDowell and Lenny Dykstra having a woefully uncomfortable interview with Martha Quinn on MTV before the Mets went to the World Series in 1986.

Seems that way. Except for when Martha Quinn asks them what kind of band they’d like to be in, Lenny Dykstra says, “If I was in a band, I’d like to be in a band like Huey Lewis.”

Which is a sick bummer when you grew up worshipping Lenny Dykstra.  When you taught yourself how to hit lefty even though you were right-handed just because that’s how Nails hit. When you made your mom get “DYKSTRA 4” iron-ons for the back of your replica Mets “jersey” (which, back in the late ’80s, was basically a nylon T-shirt).

When you started to develop a soft spot for Duran Duran just because they were the dudes who sang “Wild Boys,” which was the song that played during the landmark montage sequence of Nails/Wally Backman hustle plays that totally tied together the 1986 Mets: A Year to Remember commemorative video — a soft spot that would later grow even softer when an 11- or 12-year-old you liked “Ordinary World” a little too much and started to wonder if that made you gay.

OK, let’s get back on track. Here’s that “Wild Boys” montage:

Seems like a hard-rocking WildBro wouldn’t want to be caught dead being “hip to be square.” But then, I guess I’m not the first person Lenny Dykstra has totally bummed out recently.

Still, though, it’s pretty sad. Feel like I need something to pick me up and boost my spirits.  Um … don’t mind me.  Just gonna go watch some football and make love to a woman.  BRB.


Athlete Christmas Lists: Daniel Murphy

Hey Santa, man … I don’t know if you can do this for me, but I don’t really know who else to ask.  Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this dream burning a hole in my head — I see it every night when I go to sleep, and it stays with me all day, every day.  It’s all I can think about.  And I’m thinking maybe you’re the guy to help me out with it:

I want to be a herald of Galactus, Devourer of Worlds.

I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, man, you gotta talk to Galactus about that.” But hear me out, Santa. I know you’re the kind of guy that can make magic happen, and they always have such kickass powers and weapons and costumes!

And The Power Cosmic. Holy shit, The Power Cosmic. Don’t even get me started on The Power Cosmic.

Do you even realize what my BABIP would be if, every time I stepped to the plate, my body coursed with the raw furious matter-transmuting-and-obliterating energy of The Power Cosmic, just begging to be directed through my cosmic bat toward any rawhide-encased projectile? Significantly higher than .286, I’d wager.

Also, um, fucking FLYING? Through SPACE?!? Uh, yeah, dude. Sign me the hell up.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’d have to sacrifice the life force of my world and the existence of everyone I love to make this happen. I get it. But most people are bastards anyway. And if you’re asking me whether I’d rather be soaring through the Milky Way with a bat that directs The Power Cosmic or in a platoon with Carlos Delgado, keeping the seat warm for a kid named Ike? I think we both know the answer to that question.

Bet Firelord is a pretty decent guy, once you get to know him.  Maybe I could make my name like his name, kinda.  Like “Heatking.”  Or “Flameduke.”  Yeah, “Flameduke The Hitter.” So sick.

So, listen, I know that’s kind of a tall order, but I’d really appreciate it if you could set this up.  And I guess, failing that, Hangover on DVD.  Thanks, friend.

Fly safe,
Flameduke The Hitter ;)

A sincere plea to Darryl Strawberry

Dear Darryl:

Stop talkingForever.  Please?

Every word you say only serves to further ruin your already ravaged reputation.  Every time you open your mouth, you throw more dirt on the mnemomic casket containing the all-too-fleeting glimpses of the otherworldliness you displayed on the field.  You make it nigh on impossible to think of you as anything other than a complete cipher, a clueless cock and an utterly non-comprehending douchebag.  It’s painful, and I’d like you to stop it.

I was 4 years old when you, Doc, Mex, Nails, Ray, Kid and all the rest bestrode New York like gods.  I’m not 100 percent sure about this, but I think that the experience of watching you crash and burn, scorch the ground where the ashes fell and salt the earth underneath, is why my entire generation of Mets fans stays forever shook, never truly able to enjoy successes like 2000 and ’06.  You turned us into bitches, Darryl.

Because of you (and, perhaps even more tragically, because of Doc), we’ve seen visions of greatness dissipate before.  We’ve seen how the desire to fill the gap can lead to the Bobby Bonillas, Juan Samuels and Gregg Jefferies of the world; how those inevitable failures can lead to lengthy droughts without true cap-letter All-Star talent; how continually striking out in search of the Next Big Thing and watching the team you love play second fiddle to a loathsome juggernaut across the Triborough Bridge can spark an inferiority complex that we just can’t seem to shed.

Because of you, “Ya Gotta Believe” became “I’ll Believe It When I See It.”  And as we enter Year 23 since the tipping point of the dynasty that wasn’t, we ain’t seen nothing yet.

My head understands that it’s way too simple to pin this all on you, Darryl; management obviously bears the brunt of the blame, and I’m pretty sure the rest is Jeff Torborg’s fault.  But when it comes to the malformed emotional connection I have to the Mets, the inability to appreciate the good times and the gut-wrenching need to focus on the bad … well, I learned it by watching you, dude.

We’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, because the last time we weren’t, it wrecked us something awful.  And yet, even though I know you’re a dyed-in-the-wool bad guy, it’s still surprisingly hurtful when you inevitably pop up, say/do/snort/drink/hurt something/someone you shouldn’t, then flash that $58,000 smile (deflation, you know) and say you’ll try to be good.  But you won’t.  You’re not a good dude, Darryl.  You were just drawn that way.

Now, please step away from the mic.  I’d like to read the Wiley SI piece in peace and pretend all this never happened.

Take care of yourself,

this is the city line.

NOTE: From a more removed perspective, MLB FanHouse’s John Walters writes: “… at least [Strawberry] takes stock in his addictive and competitive personality to make an honest assessment of himself. For those who have that kind of personality, the lure of the drug is much more powerful than the individual taking them.”  Which is a fair point.

In which your man fires up the ol’ computer to get the scoop on last night’s Knicks game

I didn’t see last night’s Knicks/Warriors tilt — not that I’ve seen any other Knicks tilts this season, what with my out-of-marketdom, my lack-of-League-Passery and my inability-to-procure-even-basic-cable-due-to-significant-broke-assness.  But on the way into work, I heard on the radio that despite NateRob’s best Short Round-esque attempts to warn Wilson Chandler to cover his heart (or at least the paint) as Corey Maggette lets loose a jumper, Dominant Team Pringles dropped a heartbreaker to the Golden State Dubs in Hammerworld.  Just a brutal stretch for the Knicks, as they continue to run up against excellent teams and play balls-out to the best of their abilities, only to come up just short.

Now, to take a spin around the news-gathering world to become more informed about just how well the Knicks acquitted themselves in defeat:

Hmm. That’s funny. Headline for the AP game story on ESPN.com says “Jackson’s 35 points lead Warriors’ 144-127 rout of Knicks.”  Must be a confused editorial intern or something.  Surely the Knicks didn’t give up 144 points to an 18-35 team that’s just beginning to integrate its best scorer back into the lineup while still giving starter’s minutes to this guy.  Surely the rest of the article will clarify that Mike D’Antoni’s squadron performed impeccably throughout:

OAKLAND, Calif. — Al Harrington basked in the boos, calling them down from the rafters with both outstretched arms after he hit a 3-pointer just 61 seconds into his return to Golden State.

The former Warriors forward should have saved whatever energy he possessed for playing a little defense. Harrington and his New York Knicks were just too pitiful to boo while Golden State rolled to the highest point total in the NBA this season. (emph. mine)

“Just too pitiful to boo”?  Oh, this doesn’t sound good.  But you know what?  Fuck the AP.  Bunch of greedy self-righteous dicks, if you ask me, always trying to undermine that which is relevant and hopeful.  Let’s turn to an outlet where the coverage isn’t ruthlessly biased and mean-spirited.   Somewhere like the New York Post, which I’m sure will give me an honest take on Al Harrington’s night:

Harrington was the most hated man in Oakland last night. The ex-Warrior who forced his exit to New York was booed whenever he touched the ball, cheered whenever he missed or had the ball stripped, which was three times. (emph. mine)

With 7:04 left, Harrington was stripped yet again, by ex-Knick Jamal Crawford, leading to a fast-break, Driving slam by Corey Maggette that sent the Warriors ahead 123-104. The Knicks outgunned the Warriors 138-125.

The Warriors spoiled Harrington’s revenge night with a dizzying display of running and gunning. Harrington had a big first half with 22 points before he disappeared, finishing with 24, with four turnovers, making 9 of 20 shots. (emph. mine)

Well, that doesn’t sound too good. But hey, that’s the typical mainstream media line of BULLSHIT, right?  You can’t trust anything you read in the fishwrap worth a damn anymore — the whole industry’s imploding, and attention to detail was on the first floor of the shitheap of a building.  God, look at that second paragraph — does that intermittently capitalized confusion-pile look like something a professional editor would’ve allowed to happen back in the heyday of hard-boiled scribes like Jimmy Breslin and Pete Hamill?  HELL NO.  And they were always drunk, all the time.

No, sir, any reader worth his salt knows that if you want the REAL story these days, you need to hook up with the blogosphere.  It’s where all the best, sharpest writing is happening, for honest.  I’m sure that Seth over at the excellent site Posting and Toasting will beat back these haters with clear-eyed analysis that is both calm and effusive in its praise of the Knickerbockers:


Holy shit.  It really WAS that bad?  The Knicks just got their asses beat up and down the floor, and you’re telling me there’s no excuse?

God, I feel so hopeless.  Not even “Go New York Go” is dispelling my blues; I’ve watched the ’94 version and the Q-Tip ’09 update six times each, and my sadger’s still on 100, thousand, trillion.  Me llamo Eeyore, y’all.

Whatever.  Guess I’ll just go to the Knicks’ official Web site to put a cap on this depressing morning:

Already shorthanded without Quentin Richardson, the Knicks lost three players, Chris Duhon, Tim Thomas and Jared Jeffries, to injury.

OF COURSE!  INJURIES!  How could you reasonably expect any team to compete against the likes of C.J. Watson, Kelenna Azubuike and this guy without talented, strategically integral pieces like Quentin Richardson, Tim Thomas and Jared Jeffries?  It’s unfathomable.

Injuries as an excuse for abysmal performances, FTW.  Can’t wait to use it again after the Knicks lose to this guy tonight.

Photo by Rocky Widner/NBAE via Getty Images, via Yahoo! Sports’ NBA Photo Gallery.