BOM-Sports - FINAL BEST REASON WE SHOULD GET THE OLYMPICS IN ...
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Or how about three? The amazing supply of affordable housing. The unclogged streets thanks to anti-gravity cars, honest and hardworking police. And, in general, a skyrocketing quality of life.
After Prohibition is adopted by the City Council in 2010, we're the next Salt Lake City, and you will like it or lump it, digest it and dump it.
But those Rockette cheerleaders. As grand as the architecture is, as famous as the stage and acoustics are, the sight of the Liberty plying their orange-and-white b-ball trade on the Radio City Stage during the recent occupation of Madison Square Garden could send us back to the days of watching sixth-grade basketball played in a "gym" that doubled as the school auditorium. Who's going to take that dive for a loose ball heading for the orchestra pit? And we wonder if our local WNBA heroes had to stay late after the game to help put the folding chairs away in an orderly fashion.
RIGHT NOW
SCOTT KAZMIR
The Kazmir dispute. First appearance for Tampa Bay against Seattle in mid-August, the kid the Mets were never going to trade was lights out. Of course the former first-round draft pick got nine runs to work with in his debut, and his next couple of starts didn't go as well, and he's got Lou Piniella to deal with. So he'd better win. Zambrano, meanwhile, will only be famous for being just the fourth player with a last name starting with "Z" to play for the Mets, joining Todd Zeile, Pat Zachary and Don Zimmer-two of whom are not gay.
STEVE CANGIALOSI DOING METROSTARS GAMES FOR MSG AND FSN
To the moon, Steve. The kid from Queens who supposedly has memorized all 39 episodes of The Honeymooners has brought his trademark enthusiasm to the local MLS side both during games and as host of the weekly Metro Soccer Report. So what if nobody is listening or watching? We like how his forehead is almost as grand as the frontal dome sported by Juliette Lewis.
A little respect. Poor Tug, God rest his soul. He was once the heart of the Mets. Always a flake and always a decent pitcher. The ex-Marine took the 1973 Mets from a losing season into the World Series with his famed slogan: "Ya Gotta Believe." Thirty years later, the fans have turned sour and are now carrying signs at Shea that read "You Gotta Believe We Stink."
The Mets do indeed stink, but let us leave Tug McGraw out of this. He deserves better than that, just as Mets fans deserve better than what Fred Wilpon is putting out on the field.
JOHN MCENROE
Seven-love. The always-reliable Phil Mushnick stayed on WFAN's two biggest blowhards like a pit bull on two poodles. He recently reported that Chris Russo had John McEnroe on as a guest, and as is Russo's wont, he went on and on about his own tennis game. Does anyone want to hear about Chris Russo's hobby? McEnroe-our favorite red-ass Irishman-listened, then told Russo, "Who gives a rat's ass?"
Thank you, John. Now tell Mike Francesca the next time he starts a boring story about the racehorses he owns he should stay out in the stables and shovel the shit there instead of on AM radio.
Countin' the days. The Brooklyn Startin'-shit-at-the-White-Castles, Jay-Z's Bee-otches, Brooklyn Elite Dodgers, Brooklyn Knickerbockers, Brooklyn Rims, Brooklyn Backboards, 718 Y'All, LIU Blackbirds II, Team Target, Brooklyn Sharptons, Underberg Warehouse Poltergeists, Brooklyn Tysons, The Doctoroff Dozen, Cypress Hill, Freddy's Bar Avengers, the Lords of Flatbush.
JOE BENIGNO
Umbertoooooooooooooooooo's Clamhouse! This guy is good. Other than the times he fawns over questionable phone calls from former ESPN frat boy Rich Eisen during the WFAN overnight, Benigno is truly the man who rules the Bartertown that is late-night sports talk radio in this city. While his daytime counterparts still think Deathtrap is playing on Broadway and the subway costs 75 cents, Benigno earns his stripes on weeknights when the Mets are in major losing streaks, or when the Knicks lose a big game. He doesn't own racehorses or root for the San Francisco Giants. He's a Mets, Jets and Rangers fan with the elephant's memory and tolerance for even the worst callers engaging Verizon in the wee hours (such as Ari from Manhattan). Benigno, who shares his name with former Met Benny Ayala (Benigno Ayala is his official name) holds his own in a slightly above-blue-collar fashion without the usual condescension that seeps from radio microphones once the Witching Hour arrives.
PAULIE "THE MAGIC MAN" MALIGNAGGI
Hey, kiss dis. This kid from Bensonhurst who often enters the ring talking on his cellphone uses more hair gel than all of Victoria Gotti's "kids" combined. He's living the welterweight dream with an ego the size of the Verrazano Bridge.
Malignaggi would be even cooler if he did actual sleight-of-hand magic tricks during his ring entrance, but this paisan version of Prince Naseem and a professional camera mugger is still early in his career-so we can only hope. He's only got a few cable-tv bouts under his belt, but look out for much more from this jab-specialist kid who may one day be a Chooch Champ.
NEW YORK SPORTS EXPRESS
The lighter side of sport. When New York Sports Express forced the Village Voice to cry uncle and fold its long-suffering sports page, a flood of resumes began appearing on editor Spike Vrusho's desk. But few if any of those applicants landed jobs with NYSX: The original roster of writers held up like the '27 Yankees throughout the course of the paper's short life.
Inside the little orange boxes every week-the Pokey to New York Press' Gumby-you'd find Robert Ecksel covering local practitioners of the sweet science like the morning dew, C.J. Sullivan mourning the Giants and Mets, Vlad the Impaler beating the spread, Matt Taibbi keeping abreast of the Florida Seminals parole fund, Dave Hollander somehow landing the last George Plimpton interview ever, Michael Malone trawling the streets for aging badminton gurus, Ryan Baxter arguing that wrestling wasn't fake and Steve Ovadia reminding us that some people really do care about hockey. Spike tied it all together with a Lester Bangs-ian editor's note and the best Yankees writing in the city. There was nothing like it before, and there's nothing like it now.
Rest in peace, NYSX. You're missed like hell.