Staying warm by the Hot Stove

We’re going to step away from the NFL today.

There are a couple of motives behind this. First, I realize I’ve been a bit football heavy of late – I may be one NFL column away from morphing into Peter King and writing about my daughter’s field hockey team and the newest mocha offerings at Starbucks for the rest of my days. I'd like to avoid this if possible.

More importantly, I’ve been specifically advised by Apple Sports Life physicians to refrain from writing any further on the Jets and their recent tribulations until my heart rate safely drops from its current Rick James 1982 Super Freak World Tour-levels. The last month of football may have single-handedly shattered the Agony-Ecstasy scale of sports fandom and quite frankly, no more Jets games until September may be the only cure.

So with that out of the way, let’s turn our attention to Hot Stove baseball. In a town that can’t get enough of baseball, is there anything better? It’s become like the season before the season – or maybe even more apt, the season that decides the season. The Yankees are up to their usual tricks following Game 7, which was to be expected. Steinbrenner has predictably gone insane, asking his high-powered baseball executives for little more than coffee and donuts for the last three months. Shockingly, he’s done a serviceable job. The Mets have made this off-season particularly memorable in New York – hemorrhaging money quicker then…well…Rick James during his 1982 Super Freak World Tour.

With that said, I’m going to breakdown the Yankees and Mets off-season movement. I’ll do this in two parts because before I even start typing, I guarantee I’ll end up rambling on for 1,000 words or so on the Yankees. The Mets shouldn’t always be the bridesmaid, should they? Wait, don’t answer that.

New York Yankees (2004 record: 101-61, A.L. East Division Champions, lost to Boston (4-3) in the ALCS)

Comings: LHP Randy Johnson, RHP Carl Pavano, RHP Jaret Wright, LHP Mike Stanton, OF Doug Glanville, 1B Tino Martinez, 2B Tony Womack, INF Rey Sanchez, RHP Felix Rodriguez

Goings: RHP Javier Vasquez, RHP John Leiber, 1B Tony Clark, 1B John Olerud, 2B Miguel Cairo, OF Kenny Lofton, 1B/DH Jason Giambi’s credibility, LHP Felix Heredia, RHP Esteban Loaiza

Listen. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the Yankees needed to accomplish this off-season. For all of last year’s regular season success, the convincing playoff showing against the Twins and even jumping ahead 3-0 on Boston, anyone that closely followed the team knew they were a fatally flawed bunch. With a pitching rotation thinner than a Saved By The Bell: The College Years script, the best you could do was cross your fingers, turn your collar up and hope to slip through the cracks of October without being noticed.

Well, they got noticed. It’s easy to sit back today and ridicule them for “choking” away the ALCS, thus cheapening the immense achievement of your own team (yes, I’m looking at you Bill Simmons) but in reality, the 2004 Yankees were a team teetering on the brink of disaster from August on. Vasquez and Brown were unequivocal busts and when the resurgent El Duque was finished off by a dead arm in late September (a truly overlooked aspect of the team’s downfall) the Yankees were a ticking time bomb. Once the ship began to take on water following Rivera’s blown save in Game 4, there were no aces of yesteryear to save the day. It was baseball’s version of the Titanic – sans Kate Winslet’s fat ass.

So, what do you do when you’re the universe’s most lucrative sports franchise and you need pitching? Time’s up. You buy pitchers. The biggest acquisition of course was Randy Johnson, who couldn’t possibly be any uglier. Luckily, he also may be the most dominating left-handed pitcher in the modern era, so I guess you take the good with the bad. Johnson is a stud the Yankees have coveted since ’98, and he gives them back that true ace that can go toe-to-toe with any other pitcher in the game. Losing Vasquez in the deal is more than forgivable -- add him to the laundry list of players who didn’t have the chops to cut it in New York. (Paging Kenny Rogers…you have a phone call at the front desk…)

The Carl Pavano signing has the potential to swing the division. An argument can be made that Johnson and Schilling cancel each other out (pending Mrs. Schilling’s recovery from ankle surgery, of course). But Pavano swings the balance of power between the starting rotations. This is especially key when remembering that Pavano (an ex-Sox farmhand wunderkind and Connecticut native who grew up idolizing Donnie Baseball) waited until the final hour to decide between the Sox and Yanks. Keep that in mind when CP is facing Wade Miller’s injury replacement in the ALCS.

The remaining off-season movement has been more or less window dressing. Jared Wright has bust written all over him, but when you’re the Yankees you can take a $21 million chance on a No. 4 starter. Tino Martinez was a nice nostalgia signing, I believe he recently did some commentary on I Love the 90s Part Deux. And while Tino isn't the dangerous offensively force he once was, if he gives you .260, 18 and 70 and plays his usual solid defensive first base, sign me up. It’s obviously a huge upgrade over Tony Clark who, God love him, made every Red Sox pitcher during last year’s ALCS look like Brendan Frasier in The Scout.

(An incredulous Bob Costas, paycheck in hand) "Steve Nebraska has struck out 26 straight Cardinals on 78 pitches!!! No mortal can stand in the way of history!!! Except for maybe one!!! One man who could end the perfection…a man who has had an uncharacteristic power surge here in the playoffs…a man whose wicked stroke knows no bounds…the great one…The Wizard of Oz...OZZIE SMITH!!!"

(Okay, I’m paraphrasing above, but casting a 40-year-old Ozzie Smith as the most feared hitter in baseball has to be the most egregious stretch in the history of sports and cinema. I mean, The Scout was released in 1994. Were Al Belle, Frank Thomas or Jose Canseco really unavailable? Hell, I’d even take Ozzie Canseco if given the choice. This just kills me.)

And yet I digress.

Miguel Cairo was a nice surprise last season, but he cut his own throat in contract negotiations and the Yankees scooped up Tony Womack instead. This may prove to be a solid upgrade by season’s end. If Stanton can get back some of that old Yankees magic, he’ll be a great left-handed option out of the pen. Add that to the fact that he was traded for the tragically awful Felix Heredia (to the Mets, no less) and this could end up a very smart move.

And then there’s Jason Giambi. (Cracks knuckles...)

If ever there was a cautionary tale in the modern day free agency era, Giambi is it. He was a perfect fit in Oakland, the face of a Gashouse-type team and the game’s most dangerous left-handed hitter not named Bonds. But he turned down a more than generous offer to stay with the A’s and followed a greener money trail to New York. Giambi's life hasn't been the same since. He has never looked comfortable here, even when he was playing well. And that has not been often, other than a five month stretch in his first season with the team. Now, along with Bonds (ironically), he is the face of the steroid scandal, largely due to the uniform he wears. His body is shot from excessive drug use. He’ll never be the same player who won the MVP in 2000, never come close to earning the millions of guaranteed dollars owed to him in that fateful backloaded contract. Will the Stadium rain boos on him come April? My gut feeling is no, New York likes an underdog and you won’t find a more forgiving fan nation. But if Torre decides to throw him in the fire as a full-time DH/1B, and he’s batting .185 in early-May…look out. His nightmare may be just beginning.

We’ll tackle the Mets next time…

The More Things Change...

It’s a well-worn expression by now, three words uttered so many times by so many people that an explanation is no longer necessary. Equipped with a semi-tangible knowledge of the game and any sense of history and you have everything you’ll need to understand.

Same Old Jets.

Three words that say it all. Three agonizing words that hurt even to type. Three words that perfectly sum up the complete and utter incompetence of an organization that has been marked by failure since the day a victorious Joe Willie walked out of the Orange Bowl too long ago.

With each passing season, that night in 1969 recedes further in the franchise’s rear view mirror. For people like me who were not around for it, Superbowl III exists merely as legend, alongside Babe’s called shot, the Loch Ness Monster and Skee Lo’s follow-up to “I Wish.”

When WFAN personality and long-suffering Jets fan Joe Benigno told New York Newsday last week that this was the golden age of Jets football, he wasn’t kidding. The statement was an indictment of the franchise’s failure more than anything else, a telling statement that typified how very little the franchise has accomplished. For perspective, in earning a playoff berth in three of the last four years, the team nearly matched the number of playoff appearances for the franchise in the previous two decades combined (4 to 3). Just remarkable. There is no history for this team post-Namath, just infamy.

And it's all of these factors combined that makes Saturday’s 20-17 overtime loss to the Steelers all the worse to stomach. This team was there. They were different than the others. Destiny, for once, seemed on their side. But by 8 p.m. a familiar reality had set in, the Jets forced to cope with arguably the most excruciating loss in the franchise’s history.

There’s no way it should have ended that way either. The Steelers were in their quintessential gag mode, at home, huge favorites, basically begging the Jets to finish them off. Roethlisberger looked like a rookie, Bill Cowher’s jaw was quivering, the crowd was tight as a drum.

But the Jets couldn’t get it done. When Doug Brien pulled his best Ray Finkle impression, missing back-to-back game-winning field goals to close out regulation (including one off the crossbar – classic Jets), it was just the culmination of a day of misfires. The New York Post would blindly demonize Brien as the Jets new Bill Buckner the next day, not recognizing that the epic loss was a team effort, a failure that only the Jets could have managed.

Back in college, I had the opportunity to watch the Patriots in Boston during their first championship run. New England wasn't an all-time great team that year, but they were an opportunistic one...a group that knew what it took to win. If the Jets had Adam Vinatieri instead of Doug Brien, are the Jets golfing today? If you inserted Brady for Pennington, do you think Brady misses the critical Pop Warner-level third down conversion to Moss following Bettis’ red zone fumble? If Bill Belichick was on the sideline instead of Herman Edwards, would Belichick pull the reigns back in the final minute to settle on a 43-yard field goal in the hardest building in football to make a kick? The answer to all three is a resounding no.

In the end this was a Jets team just like all the ones before it…a well-meaning group that couldn’t get the job done when it counted most. They played like a team afraid to succeed, in the end earning the rightful distinction as a loser because of it.

Following the game, the media swarmed around Brien like vultures, picking at the corpse of a guy who will wear the scarlet letter as damaged goods for the rest of his career. The Jets place kicker looked shaken, apologizing to everyone he could think of.

Everyone that is, except the fans…probably the one group of people that these losses affect the most. Fortunately or unfortunately, I attended an open bar party later that night, self-medicating with my good friends Tanqueray and Tonic. Sitting in a cab on the way home, a pang in my stomach rang out, almost reminding the inebriated version of myself of what had transpired earlier in the day. Quietly I stewed, angry that one game and one team could affect me so much.

But it does. And they will. And I’ll be back for more next year, unrequited in my affection for a team that has given me nothing but gray hairs and heartache my whole life. Because deep down, there's a part of me that feels this will all turn one day, that common logic will rule the day. Until then, the long wait for September begins.

Same Old Jets. Couldn’t put it any better myself.

Sizing up Wildcard Weekend

Let me preface this by saying I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Chances are you don't need that disclaimer. You are reading an erraticly-at-best updated Web log, after all, one that actually features a column trumping the New York Jets (yes, those New York Jets) as your next Superbowl champions. Surely I typed in jest you say. Nope. I was actually serious...a little drunk...but serious nonetheless.

I'm also the same guy that has failed to make my fantasy football playoffs the last three years, a lowly distinction previously designated to autistic children and carnies. I've never played a down of organized football in my life, opting for the safer pastures of the soccer field. Full disclosure, I quit before my sophomore year after realizing that soccer sucked worse than Wrangler jeans. I get sweats to this day at the thought of the Juggling Drill. And if you don't know what the Juggling Drill is, well man, consider yourself lucky.

And yet I digress.

So, a questionable pedigree to say the least. But no matter, because here at Apple Sports Life we like to throw caution to the wind. I'm going to take a crack at Wild Card weekend with one promise: If I get anything less than three of four games correct, I will retire from making NFL predictions.

For a couple of weeks anyway. Onto the picks…

(In honor of HBO immortals Len Dawson and Nick Buoniconti, we're going to do these picks "Inside The NFL" style. No spreads, just the winner. Like men. And by men, I mean like a man who holds the worst Fewest Bets Placed : Most Money Lost ratio in the history of modern sports. Onto the picks…)

Rams at Seahawks (Saturday, 4:30 p.m.)

Is there a more unlikable man alive than Mike Martz? I know there are more established villains in the world, your Bin Laden's and Jon Norris' and what not, but Martz is zooming up the charts, thanks in large part to his smart-ass attitude and please-please-please-punch-me-in-my-stupid-pompous-face routine. The press, his players and his fans all universally despise him and yet he remains gainfully employed. The NFL is funny like that. Make a Superbowl appearance and its like a stay of execution that can last for years. It's the NFL's Overblown Credibility Club. After the Rams became the first team to back into the playoffs with a win Sunday against the Jets, CBS showed a slow motion celebration cackle by Martz that put even Vince McMahon to shame. As for the Seahawks? I think they'll find a way at home, even though Mike Holmgren has been coasting for years on the same bogus cred as Martz. I believe Holmgren handles the books and cleans the pool at the OCC. A side note: I found Shaun Alexander's blowup after narrowly losing out on the rushing title to C. Martin strangely forgivable. Obviously, it came off poorly considering he was in the locker room of a team that had just clinched a division title, but I have to say, I'd be agitated in his place. Alexander is a tremendous player. He has carried that team (20!?! touchdowns) all season. His frustration, although ill-timed, has to be somewhat justified if it costs him serious bonus money. The NFL is different from any other major sport in that these guys aren't set for life just by staying in the game for a couple years. Contracts are backloaded and non-guaranteed -- one awkward cut or ugly pileup could end the ride. Chances are, Alexander will have more money than God by the time he's 30, but the risk in football remains. I think these guys worry about that more than most people think. Pick: Seahawks

Chargers at Jets (Saturday, 8 p.m.)

When the weather gets nasty and I feel the need to vomit at least once a week, that must mean the Jets are playing meaningful late-season football. It's like the stirring of livestock before a twister. This team was flying high a month ago, sitting at 9-3 with "statement games" against the Steelers and Patriots on the docket. Fast forward to the present and the Jets are 10-6 and without a shred of confidence or continuity to be found. Edwards and offensive coordinator Paul Hackett have been lambasted by the media of late, and rightly so. But that truth has partially deflected the blows away from Chad Pennington, who has been uglier than a 4 a.m. PATH train of late. It's funny. Six months ago this guy was "The Franchise" and now most Jets fans don't know what to think about him anymore. As someone who put down a 60 spot for his replica jersey, I stay on the ship for now, but for financial reasons alone. Between the shoulder injury suffered in Week 9 and his strange mini-war with the New York press following the Seattle win in Week 15, Pennington's rep has taken a real hit of late. He desperately needs to show up this weekend. Unfortunately, I'm not sure he can do that right now…not in his current physical (and possibly mental) state. As for the Chargers, you don't win 12 games by accident and the Drew Brees Redemption has been a miracle on par with the Virgin Mary grilled cheese. This was the same guy who teetered on the brink of the NFL scrapheap as recently as a Week 2 loss to these same Jets. Now he's one of the one of the best passers in the league. Figure that one out. The Chargers offense with Tomlinson and Gates is scary, and the normally stout Jets defense shit the bed in a loss to the Rams on Sunday. Throw in the fact that the game is being played in SoCal, and this should be an easy win for the Bolts. But it's never that easy with the Jets. Believe me on this. Going down in flames after a 5-0 start with a one-and-done swan song would be too simplistic. "They didn't have the team," an excepting Jets fan would say. But it doesn't work that way. It never has…and it never will. The Heartbreak Hotel remains vacant for another week.Pick: J-E-T-S


Broncos at Colts (Sunday, 1 p.m.)

If you're smelling blowout here, you are not alone (cue creepy Michael Jackson-Lisa Marie Presley vid clip). Peyton Manning and Peyton Manning's deformed head will shine here, leading to a week of ESPN.com and SportsCenter reports attempting to tie him to Easter Sunday. Five touchdowns here for Manning is not out of the question, one can only hope that he picks on Champ Bailey, who was exposed this season worse than Hootie and The Blowfish in '95. In related news, Dan Marino appeared in Hootie's 1995 classic video "Only Want To Be With You," throwing a pass to lead singer and ardent Fish fan Darius Rucker. Rucker dropped the ball, just as he would do a year later with the release of "Fairweather Johnson." On the Broncos side, Mike Shanahan (a founding member of the Overblown Credibility Club) will do his usual routine, looking as if he has to take a dump for three straight hours. Jake Plummer will take his helmet off following ill-advised pass attempts and expose his unsightly beard. Laughter will ensue. Pick: Colts.


Vikings at Packers (Sunday, 4:30 p.m.)

A few thoughts on the Vikings. First off, giving Mike Tice a contract extension after the Vikes latest inexcusable slide job is like giving Breckin Meyer another primetime sitcom after "Inside Schwartz." You just don't do it. Tice, who exudes a Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer quality that makes him oddly endearing, seems like a nice enough guy, but I wouldn't leave him alone with my iPod for 10 minutes. He has a bizarre knack at messing things up. On the other side, you have Brett Favre, who I predict will be willed to at least three TD passes by whichever announcing team is working the game. Old white announcer guys loooove Brett Favre. It's uncanny. I swear I heard Paul Maguire climax after a Favre eight-yard scramble last month. I think I read somewhere that Dan Dierdorf doesn't wear his wedding band when calling Favre games. Dick Enberg's plea bargain dictates he stay 1000 yards from Lambeau until 2008. I wish I was making this stuff up. Pick: Packers