Blurbex

The Rays had no choice but to deny it — that the reason they lost yesterday’s game was because of a collective hangover; and I don’t mean emotional hangover, but the kind of hangover you get from drinking way too much on a Saturday night.

Of course they lost the season’s last home game because they were, probably to a man, fighting the effects of the previous night’s alcohol intake. Dozens of cases of beer consumed. Dozens of bottles of champagne. If you’ve ever tried to take a jog with a vile hangover, you know how debilitated you are. Now try to focus on a low-and-outside slider.

Hey, I don’t blame the guys for getting wasted after clinching the team’s first ever playoff spot on Saturday. And I don’t blame them for not admitting that the after-effects of boozing contributed to the loss — just so long as they realize that much more work is to be done to hold off Boston for the AL East title, and they get back in gear tonight.

Celebrating too early and allowing the Sox to pass them in the division race would really set a bad note for the playoffs, and that includes forfeiting home field advantage.

Shit, I almost forgot. Congratulations Rays. You got it done — the first part, at least.

• I can’t remember the last time the Bucs were in a barnburner like yesterday’s win against the Bears, and it was fun to watch. I give Brian Griese big ups for staying resilient and rallying his team.
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Rays centerfielder B.J. Upton got booed last night — in his home park. That can’t feel good. After being benched twice in the last few weeks by manager Joe Maddon for lack of hustle, Upton made a baserunning error that looked really, really bad:

He hit a sharp shot to right, then hung around the batter’s box admiring the flight of the ball, thinking it was a homerun. Then he ambled down the first base line when he realized it would stay in the park. An easy double. He jogged around first and coasted toward second base. The Angels first baseman followed behind him, took the throw from the outfield and tagged Upton just before he touched second.

Upton looked shocked. He’d been tricked. Worse, it was not a good time to appear lazy on the baseball diamond. He hung his head. All this scrutiny, he had to be thinking, I just don’t need this.

Thing is, I don’t see Upton as lazy. At least not in this case. 99 times out of a hundred, that hit turns into an easy double. The first baseman doesn’t shadow you down the line and tag you.

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As I was driving out of my cul de sac in St. Pete, ready to brave Tropical Storm Fay and — fuck it — drive across the bridge to the CL office in Tampa, I had to make a hard right turn to avoid a downed palm branch! Phew. A few blocks later, another downed palm frond. I made it to the office and am hunkered down here for the duration. Where’s ABC Action News and Don Germaise? I want my on-camera!

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The Michael Phelps story was impressive, of course — his body of work in this Olympics is mind-boggling — but for my money the most extraordinary individual achievement of these Games thus far has been Usain Bolt’s win in the 100 meters. He blew away the field, celebrated the last 10 or 15 meters and still broke the world record with a 9.69.

At 6-feet-4, 198 pounds — gargantuan for a sprinter — Bolt runs with a kind of joyful lope. In the 100-meter final, he came out of he blocks a bit behind, and at the halfway point started to put everyone in his dust. The last part of his run was pure euphoria.

If you haven’t seen the highlight, you should. I couldn’t get it on YouTube — just still shots set to music, mostly — but it is available through NBC (although you must have the right browser). I got blocked from posting it here, but this is the link.

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When certain pundits started taking NBC to task for offering too much choice during the Olympics, I thought they’d lost it. How could there be too much choice?

I still hold to that position – if a little girl wants to watch Equestrian on Oxygen and I don’t, so much the better – but I must admit that all this choice has altered my viewing habits, and not always for the better. 

I have a full HD cable package, which means that on top of all the regular Olympic channels, I get a Korean and Chinese (Mandarin) channel. I was like a third-grader with a new video game the first weekend, but lately I’ve been noticing a problem: I’ve developed a short attention span. I tune in a little boxing, a little cycling, a little beach volleyball, a little softball, a little badminton, a little of everything, and don’t stay very long at any of them. It just occurred to me that I haven’t watched an entire contest in any of those above-mentioned sports.

I must be missing out on some good competition, some nailbiters. I’ve taken in a lot of swimming  — about a world record every few minutes last night – probably, precisely, because the races take just minutes (and because Phelps is an animal). The only thing I’ve watched buzzer to buzzer is the U.S.A. Basketball trouncing of China on Sunday. I even stayed for the post-rout garbage time, probably just to see if could watch one event all the way through. 

Part of this scattershot pattern is due to games being shown. The last couple of nights have been heavy on gymnastics, and no matter how hard I try I can’t get into watching prepubescent girls twist and tumble, nor well-muscled little dudes for that matter.

(I’ve probably missed a few good wipeouts, which I love – although not as much as figureskating wipeouts – and that’s because I can’t keep my finger off the remote.) Hopefully, my attention span will lengthen when the track and field starts and basketball gets into the medal rounds. Until then, my TV’s probably going to resemble a popcorn popper. 

By the way, the coolest unusual (to Americans) sport I’ve seen during these Olympics: team handball. It has nothing to do with hitting a rubber orb against a wall. Look for it. Here’s a video primer.

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Isaac Hayes, that pimpin’ progenitor of symphonic soul, died yesterday at 65; relatives found him by a still-running treadmill in his home in Memphis.

Hayes, aka Black Moses, contributed to the soundtrack of my high school years.

His biggest hit, “Theme From Shaft,” starts with a long instrumental section built around swirling strings and wah-wah-drenched rhythm guitar. Then the songs glides into Hayes’s buttery baritone.

The lyrics include the iconic line, “They say this cat Shaft is a bad muthah” [then the girl vocalists drown him out] “Shut your mouth!”

Here’s a fun clip of Hayes on stage performing “Shaft” with his mammoth ensemble. A ’fro-wearing, dashiki’ed Jesse Jackson introduces him.

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We’ve finally found something that President George W. Bush is good at:  

Cheerleader. 

Jock prez Bush has been all over the Beijing Olympics, sitting in the stands, kibitzing with the athletes, riding the mountain bike course. After beach volleyballer Misty May-Treanor invited him to slap her on the ass – a customary gesture of encouragement – Bush obliged with a little tap on her lower back. C’mon Dubya, get into the spirit, man. She offered. And she has a pretty nice ass.

I don’t blame Bush for living it up at the Olympics. He’s the ultimate lame duck who’s just cashing in on his VIP status, milking all the swag he can get. 

It’s a bit of a sad commentary, of course: Bush waving to the athletes from the stands, winking, smiling his fratboy smile. He’s a good fan, a true believer, a total U.S. Olympic team booster. He seems so much in his element.  

Which just underscores how bad he is at everything else. At the Olympics, he is excelling as a figurehead. If only we could’ve kept him in that role for the last eight years.

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 Do yourself a favor and watch the U.S.A. Basketball team in the Olympics. I just saw them rout China, and was impressed.

Yes, there was the assortment of spectacular dunks and amazing no-look passes, but the U.S. players didn’t come off as showboaters. It’s just how they play – frenetic and fast-paced. The Redeem Team, as they’ve been dubbed (because of recent failures by U.S.A. Basketball in international competition), shows good character and consummate teamwork.

They’re entertaining because they play fastbreak basketball, keying their offense off smothering defense (steals leading to highlight dunks). (Anyone under the preposterous notion that NBA players don’t play D should watch these guys.) It’s really refreshing to witness hoops being played by magicians in a wide-open style. 

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This post is not about Brett Favre. Well, peripherally, perhaps. Local sports-talk radio is abuzz in the aftermath of the Bucs’ failed attempt to trade for [you know who], the main issue being how incumbent QB Jeff Garcia will react.

Garcia’s always been an underdog type — too small, not a great arm — so in one sense, he’s been through this sort of thing before; in another sense, he’s probably fuckin’ tired of it.

The question being posed is: Will his hard feelings about the Bucs courting [you know who] affect his play? I say, not a chance.

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Sometimes I lie in bed and think about words (sometimes I think of other stuff as well). Happened just the other day. I was rummaging through my memories to come up with some of our favorite slang phrases during my adolescence in the early-to-mid-’70s.

I grew up in suburban New York, and having subsequently met folks in my age group from all around the States, it’s clear that we did not all share the same vernacular. 

When I first came to Florida after finishing college in upstate New York, I didn’t fit in too well with the social cliques in St. Pete. Some of it was a language barrier. I couldn’t stand to hear someone say “y’all,” let alone say it myself. “Y’all” was pretty common down here at the time; I don’t hear it as much anymore.

One word I brought down from up north was “pisser,” or, more accurately, “pissa.”

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