Mister Faded Glory | misterfadedglory.com

Yes, I titled today’s post just so you would all know that yesterday’s title was a bad pun and not a typo. I don’t do typos.

Anyway, daft Draft fun isn’t just a one-day event – the comedy spills over into the following week. After reading the insanely detailed and phenomal True Hoop Draft Live Blog, head on over to Bill Simmons – as much as we deride him, or tout him, his draft comedy is the pinnacle of modern sportswriting-cum-blogging. Witness – I placed nearly this exact same phone call, echoing the following Simmons passage, to a close personal friend around pick No. 12 –

Note: We’re officially in “killing time until the Knicks pick” mode. If the Knicks take Marcus Williams, that’s it — I’m retiring the draft diary. That will never be topped. By the way, did you know he’s leading all NBA rookies in steals right now? Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be here all week

Bill Simmons, Draft Diary X, ESPN.com

Read more

No doubt you’ve been refreshing Mr. Faded Glory all day at work, clamoring for your snide NBA Draft Coverage.

Where’s my mock draft! you cry.

Well, have no fear. An hour before the actual draft, it’s here. And though the draft has lost luster since the days in which I knew ups-and-downs of every single player, every single team, and treated the NBA as religion rather than a joke. However, the draft still piques my interest. Each year I yearn for the days when I watched the draft, two liter of Dr. Pepper in tow, wondering how Allan Houston and Lindsey Hunter fit in the Piston’s backcourt. Now, I scoff and wonder which idiotic team will fall under the spell of the latest lazy wunderkind, Rudy Gay. All sports teams always forgive talent, even untapped, to their own chagrin.

Unlike its cousin, the NFL Draft, it’s mercifully short. And even though ESPN has pretty much effected the ruin of the NBA, I’m still going to watch. (Though I puked over lunch when I caught a few minutes of some lame Draft Preview special. Stephen A. Smith was doing his usual schtick, screaming and ranting. Quite Frankly, hasn’t the Worldwide Leader learned that no one likes SAS? Cripes, Stephen. Shut the hell up.)

Regardless, here it is. It’s quick, it’s uninformed – yet it’s still effective. Your NBA Draft Mockery:

Read more

In my Cubs depression, I refrained from pointing out that eternal Cubs nemesis — leader of the ever-growing list of mediocre pitchers who inexplicably dominate the Cubs (newest member, Boof Bonser) — eternal Cub killer Chris Capuano completely eviscerated the Baby Bears last night. Painful. Totally not shocking.

Anyway, usually I crow about being right, even in the pain of a loss. You see how dulled we’ve all become…no longer is it Chris Freakin Capuano?!?; it’s the Chicago Freakin’ Cubs?!?

We’re closing in on the Official Ten-Year High School Reunion of Mr. Faded Glory.

Somehow (Er, after a drunken boast), yours truly is helping plan much of the logistics of the grand event — even though I narrowly lost class president election before our senior year — and though I’ve been a little busy with the planning, it’s actually gone quite seamlessly. Probably to the tribute of my colleagues.

However, you see where I’m going with this. We’re in the final days before the social mixer (not a dance!), and the music, the background noise during a night of (possibly drunken) reminiscing, is ultimately up to me. Why, you ask? Why, you groan? It just is. I’m not bragging. I’m not smug. I honestly didn’t engineer this as a chance to showcase my own personal snobby taste in music — I’m actually trying to craft a playlist that relies solely on the familiar and perhaps forgotten songs of ’96. Honest! (Ms. Faded Glory just made me strike four Bush tracks and two Smashing Pumpkins b-sides. Otherwise, though, I’m soldiering on pretty well. )

Anyway, sorry to reflect on pointless nostalgia. If you’ll indulge me (yeah, all three of you readers), I’ve included a smattering of tracks included on the list below. Remember, it was a simpler time. Alternative rock seemed to be as strong as ever, the Death Row or East Coast rap families were churning out unbelievably good product before Shakur’s tragic death sent everyone into a tailspin, and bubblegum idiot-pop hadn’t yet overtaken our culture. Ten years later, rock is all but dead, rap and R&B have moved from the gritty to the bling, and the art of the complete album is falling by the wayside. Regardless, here’s ten cuts from the 1996 playlist, selected at random, right now:
Read more

Calling it right here, right now. Tomorrow night.

Johan Santana faces the Cubs for the first time.

He’s a lefty.

He’s a strikeout pitcher.

He’s an innings-eater.
Only caveat is that since he’s a lefty, it’s probably the time for Matt Murton to break out of his slump. (Though no one else can hit him). In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked if Santana found out some way to K ex-teammate Jock Jones on two pitches. Impossible? We’ll see.

Regardless, look at this (guess) of a lineup.

CF Jack Pete
2B Perez
1B Nevin
3B Ramirez
RF Strap
LF Murton
DH Bynum
SS Cedeno
C Hank White.

Bleah.

Twins 3, Cubs 0. Santana CG, 9 K, 0 BB, 0 H, 0 R. Tough luck, Carlos. To get a win, we expect perfection.

We’re into top-ten territory now on the Grungedown — Not only does it mean I’m startlingly close to my pilgrimage to the homeland, it’s also time to recap the last fifteen entries.

25. Alice In Chains, It Ain’t Like That
24. Temple of the Dog, Reach Down
23. Screaming Trees, Sworn and Broken
22. Green River, Swallow My Pride
21. Pearl Jam, Why Go
20. Nirvana, Sappy
19. Neil Young, Hey Hey My My (Into the Black)
19. Malfunkshun, My Only Fan
18. Nirvana, Here She Comes Now
17. Mad Season, I Don’t Know Anything
16. Alice In Chains, Got Me Wrong
15. Soundgarden, Jesus Christ Pose
14. Mother Love Bone, Stardog Champion
13. L7, Pretend We’re Dead.
12. Nirvana, All Apologies.
11. Alice In Chains, A Little Bitter.

And, with that, two heavy hitters:

Read more

Wow. If you would have told me this would have been the result of the NBA Finals after watching the first two games, I certainly wouldn’t have believed it. The Miami Heat — your 2006 NBA Champions.

It was actually a great series, although Dallas seemed disoriented after game three until the end. The incessant worries about refereeing, calls, and circumstances outside their control was a huge negative.

Yes, Maverick Universe, welcome to reality. NBA officiating is bad. It’s always been bad.

(What frustrates me is the chirping after the game in sports-radio population, claiming that Mike Jordan never got the calls Dwyane Wade is receiving now. Ridiculous. We’re finally past the decade-plus of blind, ubiquitous Jordan-worship from every joker with a pulse, only to have it surface again just because Dwyane Wade heads to the free throw line? Aargh! And, honestly, what about Jordan‘s last, blatant, obvious no-call foul against Bryon Russell, before the final shot of the 1998 Finals? Isn’t that NO-CALL effectively the same as, getting A call? I digress totally…)

Anyway, bad officiating is nothing new. Read the guru of NBA officiating analysis, Bill Simmons’, column today. It happens. It should and could be fixed, but it happens. Moreover, the antics of the Mavs suggested a weeklong removal of accountability, from owner on down, seeking to scapegoat all their performances — that couldn’t have had a positive effect. And it showed.
Read more

‘Twas not to be. Another good game. The Jekyll-and-Hyde Carolina story ends with the (presumably) real Hurricane (Hurricanes?) from games 2, 4, and 5 showing up to clinch the title over our Oilers.

Home ice or home court is a pretty tough mountain to climb for a visiting team in games 7, historically, in the NBA or NHL Finals. The Oilers were game tonight, but Cam Ward was great for the ‘Canes in goal, the Hurricane defense was smothering once again, and Edmonton muffed a few of their real scoring chances. They just looked as though they spent it all on Saturday — and Carolina looked as though they had saved up.

Give credit to Carolina. They were the better team tonight, and won the finals. Good series, good final game. And we’ll sign off, until next season.

(Full disclosure: For some bizarre reason, I love the old Isles Fisherman jerseys. Not as much as the Oilers’ logo, but I like it for some horrific reason. Last post was just a reason to work it in somewhere.)

I’ll spare you the soliloquy — but nothing in sports is quite like a Game 7.

I’ll spare you the further soliloquy — no game seven is quite like a Stanley Cup Finals game seven.

I’ll spare you all of this, but do yourself a favor and tune in at 7 p.m. to watch the hopeful Oilers perhaps pull off a nearly improbable Stanley Cup win over the suddenly-scrambling Hurricanes. (Hurricane? Whichever.)

Except for games 2 and 6, this Stanley Cup series has been fast, furious, and fun to watch. Of course, when I think about it — nearly all of them are, even the sweeps (Except the year the Devils beat the Panthers. Woof.). Need another storyline going into tonight’s must-see game? Former New York Islander wunderkind Michael Peca is Edmonton’s unstoppable face-off force, and he’s squaring off against former Isle coach Peter Laviolette. Yep, it’s one of those games for Isles fans. Perhaps the most disappointing moment for franchise fans since the Islanders unveiled this:

Yikes.
Read more

There’s certainly a time in individual, mentally-dominated sports, in which a players’ repeated near-misses create and strengthen a bond with his or her loyal fan base; in which an individual’s character is revealed, strengthened — and inspires legions of fans.

Today was not one of those days. For crying out loud, Phil, you could have teed off on 18 with a seven-iron and won your open. Totally, utterly, inexplicable.

It’s not like collapses haven’t happened before (See the similar carnage when Retief Goosen won his first Open), or haven’t been more severe in the past. (Uh, Greg Norman‘s Masters meltdown. That Van De Velde dude in the British Open a few years back.) It’s not even that the frustrating nature of golf lends itself to bizarre and frustrating turns of events.

It’s that this was totally avoidable for one of golf’s fan favorites, but he stuck with what, perhaps, led to these near-misses all along. You always ask for drama on a Sunday at the majors (that’s what gets the casual fans tuning in), but rarely is it so sickening. Congrats to Geoff Ogilvy, though. He’s a young guy, a good pro, and repeatedly got the shaft from NBC’s abysmal tongue-in-cheek coverage.

As for Phil? Well, there’s always a next time. Isn’t there?