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Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Citizen Number One
If I've learned anything in my life as a sports fan, it's that sports reporters are predisposed towards hyperbole. In an era of around the clock sports coverage, where the writers have become entertainers, these ink slingers frequently resort to making absurd exaggerations and expressing intentionally contrarian viewpoints to sell print and boost ratings (read: Woody Paige/Skip "Fego" Bayless). It's simple--an article that annoints Bryce Harper as "The Best Prospect Ever" is always going to get more attention than one that merely touts him as "A Really Good Prospect." Hell, even in writing for a blog with virtually no readership, I feel the urge to juice up my subject's statures to make them seem more relevant.
I realize that what I write next may come off as more of the same--another piece of Rick Reillyesque bombast to burnish the memory of some undeserving millionaire has-been. The difference in this case is that I mean everything I am about to say and the subject really deserves the praise. It's fitting that the most sincere piece I'll ever write for this site is a paean to the white knight of the NBA (and my childhood idol), the virtuous David Robinson.
I realize that what I write next may come off as more of the same--another piece of Rick Reillyesque bombast to burnish the memory of some undeserving millionaire has-been. The difference in this case is that I mean everything I am about to say and the subject really deserves the praise. It's fitting that the most sincere piece I'll ever write for this site is a paean to the white knight of the NBA (and my childhood idol), the virtuous David Robinson.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Over/Under, Vol IX: Don't Call it a Comeback
After allowing myself an Oden-esque lapse in productivity, let it be known that the Last Naked Warrior is making his triumphant return to the world of fegos.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
If You're Going To Bury The Truth, Make Sure It Stays Buried
Unless you've been too busy dancing in your underwear to the new Miley Cyrus joint (Certifiable HIT), you realize that tomorrow marks the beginning of the NFL season. For football diehards, the season opener portends many things. Week 1 signifies hope renewed, the moment at which all the abstract posturing and adjustments of the offseason solidify into something tangible. Will Michael Vick prove to be a model citizen in the Philly dog pound? Is this Poop Fargas' breakout year? Is this the Wrangler Jorts Guy's last season? We'll find out in the next few months.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Freaks: Insidious Sixth
There will be times in your life when you cross a rubicon--one of those points where you recognize that life will never be the same afterwards. For me, last night was one of those nights.
Allow me to set the scene a little bit. One of my first posts on Fegonomics detailed my experience with my company's Red Sox season tickets last year--an experience that pretty much bored to tears. Fast forward 365 days: we got a black man doing his thing in the White House, Big Papi has lost at least 25 pounds of muscle, It Was All a Dream exhibits significantly more alcoholic tendencies, and I still hate baseball...well kinda.
I got tickets for the Red Sox/White Sox clash thinking that the White Sox fans were going to look like this. At the very least, I was excited by the prospect of double fisting $8 bood lights and alienating all the old-timers sitting around me and Dream. After a few assaults on the beer stand, and some freebie soft serve, I was starting to really get into the game. Something about the way Tim Wakefield was pulling some okey-doke shit with his knuckleballs really resonated with me. Around the sixth inning, the the score knotted at 1's, I started proclaiming that Wally Ortiz was going to hit a walkoff.
Anyone (read: the one person) who reads this blog realizes that my beisbol knowledge is limited. Patricia Heaton limited. Limited to the point that I think Henry Rowengartner is still the Cubs' middle reliever. So while I recognized that chaman Ortiz had definitely dropped a lot of bulk after getting off the 'roids, I failed to take into account the deletorious effects getting weaned off the cream and the clear would have on his performance. I mean, the fact that I can bench his batting average is not a very good sign. But statistics? Where we're going, we don't need no stinking statistics.
Allow me to set the scene a little bit. One of my first posts on Fegonomics detailed my experience with my company's Red Sox season tickets last year--an experience that pretty much bored to tears. Fast forward 365 days: we got a black man doing his thing in the White House, Big Papi has lost at least 25 pounds of muscle, It Was All a Dream exhibits significantly more alcoholic tendencies, and I still hate baseball...well kinda.
I got tickets for the Red Sox/White Sox clash thinking that the White Sox fans were going to look like this. At the very least, I was excited by the prospect of double fisting $8 bood lights and alienating all the old-timers sitting around me and Dream. After a few assaults on the beer stand, and some freebie soft serve, I was starting to really get into the game. Something about the way Tim Wakefield was pulling some okey-doke shit with his knuckleballs really resonated with me. Around the sixth inning, the the score knotted at 1's, I started proclaiming that Wally Ortiz was going to hit a walkoff.
Anyone (read: the one person) who reads this blog realizes that my beisbol knowledge is limited. Patricia Heaton limited. Limited to the point that I think Henry Rowengartner is still the Cubs' middle reliever. So while I recognized that chaman Ortiz had definitely dropped a lot of bulk after getting off the 'roids, I failed to take into account the deletorious effects getting weaned off the cream and the clear would have on his performance. I mean, the fact that I can bench his batting average is not a very good sign. But statistics? Where we're going, we don't need no stinking statistics.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Last Naked Warrior suspended one week for role in bench clearing brawl
Actually, I'm just going to Cape Cod for the week, and changing apartments when I get back.
Anyway, I should have plenty of time during the next week to dream up a brand new set of Over/Unders, so check back with me next Monday.
In the meantime, if you're really jonesing for some Warrior in your life, check my other blog, Sports Toast. Okay, shameless plug over.
See you in a week.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Freaks v. 5
This guy's dropping late, so we'll just cut straight to your freaks...
That line indicates biostatisticians' projection of the progression of the 100m world record time. Bolt's record hadn't been projected until the turn of the next century. Pre-Bolt, researchers calculated the "Ultimate Record" (i.e. the fastest humanly possible time) for the 100m as 9.44 seconds. Given the drastic revisions of the record books in the past 2 years, it is clear that Usain is forcing us to reevaluate what the limits of human speed are.
In a similar vein, Usain Bolt's success goes completely counter to all previous concepts of the prototypical sprinter. In the past, it was believed that shorter was better for sprinters. Generally, there is a inverse relationship between the muscle speed and size. Small guys like rodents and Nate Robinson have lots of fast twitch fibers that enable them to accelerate quickly at the expense of long distance top speed.
Bolt, on the other hand, blends the fast twitch capabilities of a mighty mouse with the biomechinical efficiencies that come with his 6'4" frame. This is the very definition of a freak--someone who can have his cake and eat it, too; defying commonly held conventions of biology to be purely built for speed.
Perhaps I'm a little jaded, or perhaps I've just learned how to be a more discerning customer, but I can't get all the way behind Bolt. In the past decade, we've come to realize that if something seems too good to be true, and records don't seem real...they're usually not. That being said, I hope beyond all hope that Bolt is clean. He is first team all-Kevin Garnett because he shows us that anything is possiibbllllleeeee(also because he rill rill dark)--a beacon of light in the increasingly dark and sinister world of sports. Not the hero we deserve, but the hero we need.
Meta Freak
Usain Bolt
Usain Bolt
People like Usain Bolt make this column easy to write. Not only did he easily win the 100m and 200m World championships, but he utterly eviscerated world records that he himself had previously set. Bolt's destruction of the 100m world record was the largest improvement in the mark in history. To help you conceptualize how crazy a feat this was, here's a chart that I merced from some other website (with some value added of my own):
That line indicates biostatisticians' projection of the progression of the 100m world record time. Bolt's record hadn't been projected until the turn of the next century. Pre-Bolt, researchers calculated the "Ultimate Record" (i.e. the fastest humanly possible time) for the 100m as 9.44 seconds. Given the drastic revisions of the record books in the past 2 years, it is clear that Usain is forcing us to reevaluate what the limits of human speed are.
In a similar vein, Usain Bolt's success goes completely counter to all previous concepts of the prototypical sprinter. In the past, it was believed that shorter was better for sprinters. Generally, there is a inverse relationship between the muscle speed and size. Small guys like rodents and Nate Robinson have lots of fast twitch fibers that enable them to accelerate quickly at the expense of long distance top speed.
Bolt, on the other hand, blends the fast twitch capabilities of a mighty mouse with the biomechinical efficiencies that come with his 6'4" frame. This is the very definition of a freak--someone who can have his cake and eat it, too; defying commonly held conventions of biology to be purely built for speed.
Perhaps I'm a little jaded, or perhaps I've just learned how to be a more discerning customer, but I can't get all the way behind Bolt. In the past decade, we've come to realize that if something seems too good to be true, and records don't seem real...they're usually not. That being said, I hope beyond all hope that Bolt is clean. He is first team all-Kevin Garnett because he shows us that anything is possiibbllllleeeee(also because he rill rill dark)--a beacon of light in the increasingly dark and sinister world of sports. Not the hero we deserve, but the hero we need.
Foodie Freak
Casey Thompson
I realize that Dream and Earnest are perhaps the only ones who will appreciate this pick, but allow me to explain myself. Top Chef returned with a vengeance this week, ram jamming viewers with 3 straight hours of new content, between the Top Chef: Vegas premiere and the finale of Top Chef: Masters. As of this writing the finale hasn't aired, but I think the smart money is on Hubert Keller to take home the gold in Masters, though Rick (Brother of Meta Fego (NSFW, Basically Porn), Skip) Bayless could surprise with by cooking within his comfort zone.
Oh, you guys still don't give a shit? Aight, aight. All this Top Chef talk is really just a front to showcase cha girl Casey Thompson. Not only is Casey head and shoulders(that's a dude!) above the competition as the hottest woman ever on Top Chef, but she was a final episode meltdown away from being the first woman to win the competition. Admittedly, this is pure speculation, but she looks like she could inhale my lightswitch, as well.
With her obvious physical and culinary gifts, some Heather Brooke level skill with the skin flute might vault her up to the #1 ranked prospect in the land. Can you imagine an HB 8.5 like her taking all of your 1.5 inch tower of power while you're scarfing down duck sous vide? I'm getting wet just thinking about it. One more for the road....
I realize that Dream and Earnest are perhaps the only ones who will appreciate this pick, but allow me to explain myself. Top Chef returned with a vengeance this week, ram jamming viewers with 3 straight hours of new content, between the Top Chef: Vegas premiere and the finale of Top Chef: Masters. As of this writing the finale hasn't aired, but I think the smart money is on Hubert Keller to take home the gold in Masters, though Rick (Brother of Meta Fego (NSFW, Basically Porn), Skip) Bayless could surprise with by cooking within his comfort zone.
Oh, you guys still don't give a shit? Aight, aight. All this Top Chef talk is really just a front to showcase cha girl Casey Thompson. Not only is Casey head and shoulders(that's a dude!) above the competition as the hottest woman ever on Top Chef, but she was a final episode meltdown away from being the first woman to win the competition. Admittedly, this is pure speculation, but she looks like she could inhale my lightswitch, as well.
With her obvious physical and culinary gifts, some Heather Brooke level skill with the skin flute might vault her up to the #1 ranked prospect in the land. Can you imagine an HB 8.5 like her taking all of your 1.5 inch tower of power while you're scarfing down duck sous vide? I'm getting wet just thinking about it. One more for the road....
Classic Freak
George Best
George Best
I'm sure LNW will approve.
Alright, so Best has been dead for 5 years, so there's not a ton of justification for this choice. If you really want to know, I was trying to watch one of my favorite youtube mixtapes, the George Best "Ordinary World" clip, when I realized that the audio had been replaced with "My Immortal" by Evanescence due to copyright concerns. Stuff like that pisses me off, so I stuck it to the man and employed my D- iMovie skills to remake the video with the original audio. What we have here is a fitting tribute (that I basically plagiarized) to the man for whom they used to say, "Maradona good; Pele better; George Best."
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