When you find yourself in a committed, mutually beneficial
partnership, it’s probably not a good sign when your better half is on a
cross-country trip to find your successor. No, Tony Sparano really had no shot
to survive. Stephen Ross had a wandering eye, and it was going to take more
than hush money for everyone to forget about his fling with Jim Harbaugh.
It’s not really about what Sparano is; it’s about what he
isn’t.
Ross always wanted someone with more sex appeal, more personality,
etc.
If Sparano was too blasé, you’d imagine Ross would pursue
someone who has more riverboat gambler in him.
Shit, Mike Martz will probably be
available in a few weeks. Before someone gets the wrong idea—nothing would
surprise me—it’s time to honor Mr. Sparano, who, I’d imagine, will not be the
next head coach of the University
of Alabama. (shaking my
head)
ANYWAY, today, we salute you, Tony, because Lord knows the
next Dolphins head coach won’t…
1)Fist-pump for field goals
2)Wear sunglasses inside
3)Say “you know” in every sentence, at every press
conference. It’s alright, Tony, I have the same conversational tick. Ya know?
4)Wear a fleece in September.
5)Trust Jeff Ireland.
6)Take a knee—or three—with 1:45 remaining in the
second quarter.
7)Be so damn conservative—unless it’s Bill Cowher.
Nothing really screams ‘conservatism’ like Cowher’s jaw; they cut diamonds on
that thing.
After the obligatory game of will-he-or-won’t-he, Urban
Meyer will be the next head football coach
at OhioStateUniversity.
Shocker, right? His decision to forgo early retirement and get back into the saddle—err,
horseshoe—is being met with mixed emotions. To properly gauge the state of the college
football union, we’ve checked in with a few Loose Balls correspondents. First
up, from Gainesville, Fla., we have Albert.
OK, Big Al, the floor is yours…
Albert: Hey Urb, just wanted you to know that you’re no better than
that turd from Tuscaloosa,
Nick Saban. Actually, “The Nicktator” may have even had more tact than you, ya
two-faced sonuvabitch. Weren’t we supposed to grow old together? I mean, come
on, weren’t your six years in the Swamp, the best of your life? OK, I got that
off my chest. Urb’s tenure was sublime, really. Nothing could replace those two
national championships, but this wasn’t the way it was supposed to turn out. When
he ditched Utah,
it was supposed to be for a final coaching destination. After the first
flip-flop in 2009, though, I started to have second thoughts. People outside
the Gator Nation kept telling me Urb was being a prima donna, that his
indecision about his future was Favre-esque. I couldn’t listen to them. It had
to be more than that; it had to be his desire to have peace of mind. When he stepped
down, I assumed he would be gone for a significant amount of time. After all,
wasn’t the grind of a major college program too much to stomach? But, no, he’s already
back, and with Ohio St.,
the program we throttled for the first championship. The grass isn’t always
greener on the other side. No way he’ll have the same success up there. Here’s
to years of heartache in Columbus, Urb!
Whoa, whoa. Someone sound like a jilted lover. It’ll be
alright, Alberto. The Will Muschamp era has just begun! Oh, wait, that’s right,
it’s off to a bit of an inauspicious start; something about an awful offense
and no quarterback.
ANYWAY, back to our other Urban correspondent, Bro Buckeye…
Bro: Say it with me, “O-H-I-O, O-H-I-O, Ohiiiiiiiio.” Yeah, suck
it, Gator Nation, because there’s no nation like the Buckeye Nation. You know
what this means, right? We’re back! Sure, Michigan may bragging rights this year, but
it was just a momentary setback. Coach Meyer is bringing back a few
championships to C-Bus, and it won’t be long before people start uttering Urban
in the same breath as Woody around here. Tressel was great, but Urban beat SEC
schools on a week-to-week basis. He’s
going to bring some Florida
speed and that whacky spread offense to the B1G. Watch out, things are about to
get real. Can’t wait to see Braxton do work next year, son. Those punks up at
that school in the North think they have turned the tide. Do they really think
Meyer-Hoke will be like Woody-Bo? That’s just an Urban legend. Another ten-year
war, my ass. Urban’s going to have them singing “Carmen Ohio” from sea to
shining sea. Can’t wait to see Coach Meyer tomorrow’s basketball game against
Duke. It’s going to make the Miami Heat’s Welcome Party look harmless. YES. WE.
DID. URBAN!!!!!!!!!!!!
My take: Slow down there, Bro. No reason to get
premature with those wild expectations. Meyer, however, will be really
successful at Ohio St.
It’s kind of a perfect storm, really. He’ll bring some athletes up from Florida, play that crazy
spread, maybe even find a new messianic figure to stick behind center. Watch
out, though, Buckeyes. You’re hiring Larry Brown 2.0. He’s never going to be
comfortable in one place for more than a few years. Ohio St. is Meyer’s fourth stop in a
decade, and you know it won’t be his last. After a modicum of success in Columbus, he’ll be gone,
off to the next stop, wherever that may be. Dick Vermeil he is not. For Meyer,
coaching is a drug. He’ll never be able to kick it. So he’s back, Ohio St, and it’s
going to be a successful few years. But something else will call eventually.
Coaching Touchdown Timmy in the NFL, perhaps?
Derek Fisher is not Oscar Robertson. Billy Hunter is not Jerry
West. This is not going to be some historical labor milestone; it’ll be a time
remembered—or maybe forgotten—for ineptitude and indifference. What players
will characterize as a momentous stand against unrelenting owners, really, is just
a sign of the times. You know, the whole protesting and being a part of a
transcendent political moment thing. But, sorry, the times, they’re NOT a-changin.’
In 1964, facing untenable labor conditions, a group of
players, led by Robertson and Elgin Baylor, threatened to walkout and not play
the all-star game if the owners didn’t reassess the players’ plea for a pension
system.
Unsurprisingly, the owners were furious. This, of course, was
during a time where there was an actual racial component to labor discussions,
not the forced “plantation” references that are thrown around loosely today. As
a blizzard was howling outside the BostonGarden, things became increasingly
icy inside.
But, really, Walter Kennedy, the NBA’s president—the forerunner
to commissioner—had no leverage. This was one of the league’s first nationally televised
games, an opportunity to gain support and begin competing for advertising
dollars. If he did nothing, the league would lose much-needed credibility.
Because of this, Kennedy gave in and the players’ demands
were eventually met. Less than a decade later, Robertson was headlining a piece
of legislation that would totally rewrite free-agency rules; players could now
negotiate with other teams, causing a major spike in the player salaries, in the
process.
But what about today? Are we really debating anything that’s
game changing? No, it’s nothing more than a few petty disagreements over system
issues.
You say tomato; I say tomahto…Of course, instead of
realizing this will be the best deal they’ll get, the NBAPA is calling the whole
thing off.
There has been no attempt—especially from the owners—to have
a healthy discourse about system issues until recently. Why did it take until
the late-October for the owners to offer a semi-reasonable deal? Why is the
NBAPA dissolving its union now?
It’s simple, really. Each side is stuck in its ways, and
neither one is going down without a totally unnecessary fight. It’s Capitol
Hill meets the hardwood, which is something David Stern probably doesn’t want
to create an ad campaign around, I’d imagine.
But for now, there is no ‘amazing’ in sight; it’s the NBA:
Where Filibuster Happens.
Whether you feel that the owners’ ultimatum/offer was fair
is pretty insignificant, at this point. More than likely, you probably thought
the players made an acceptable amount of concessions, and the owners’ last
offer was enough to get the players out of Kangaroo Court and on the basketball
court.
But, really, at this point, it’s not about what’s fair or
foul; it’s about smart and stupid, and the players’ decision to leave this
offer on the table was the latter.
I’m not necessarily suggesting it was a fair deal, but it
was the best they’d ever get. There’s some recent historical precedent for
this, too. Given another opportunity, I’d bet that Hunter would take one of the
initial incarnations of the eventual deal he signed in 1999. Bill Guerin, one
of the NHL players’ leading voices during the 2004-2005 lockout, has publicly urged
NBAPA to avoid making the same mistakes the NHLPA made.
But this is the players’ “proverbial” moment. They are
fighting for change, for a better system. Public perception—especially from
those that aren’t hardcore NBA fans—is that this is a petty battle between millionaires
and billionaires. The NBAPA, however, is playing right into the owners’ hands. A
vocal group of hard-line owners—spearheaded by Charlotte’s Michael Jordan and
Milwaukee’s Herb Kohl—wants to cancel the season, especially those who balked
at offering the players a 50-50 split of BRI (basketball-related income).
You could see the twinkle in Stern’s eye when he was giving
his post-mortem chat after the NBAPA’s press conference. He was smug, he was
condescending, and he was delivering talking points created by some PR maven. The
commissioner, ever the seasoned lawyer, sounded like he was preparing for
political battle.
After a few final jabs, he told the players to prepare for
the NBA’s “nuclear winter,” a characterization he borrowed from Kobe Bryant.
If only things were as “cold” as they were in February 1964,
then, maybe this would fit. Instead, we’re supposed to believe the players are
fighting some tangible injustice. Really, though, it just feels like a bad
session of Congress that will be exemplified by—what else—gridlock.
Just when you think the Dolphins have set the standard for
football ineptitude, the Colts go and raise the bar—or lower it, depending on
how you look at things.
One thing is for certain, Miami
and Indianapolis
are the worst teams in the NFL—and it isn’t even close.
There is, of course, reason to rationalize your team’s pitiful
existence this season. In the year of Luck, it doesn’t necessarily suck to
suck, because this year’s biggest loser could end up being a pretty big winner.
Andrew Luck, who many consider the best college-quarterback
prospect since Peyton Manning, could be the biggest thing to hit Lucas Oil
since, well, ol’ No.18, himself.
Pretty convenient year for the Colts to bottom out, right? If
that wasn’t the fan base’s mindset before Sunday night’s drubbing in New Orleans, it probably
is now. But it’s probably difficult to handle this season’s stark realization.
For a team that seemed in complete control for the last
decade, it is now, without Manning, foundationless. Although he’d been an
undeniable, consistent force, Peyton’s leadership and dominance created a
façade that masked some shoddy craftsmanship.
Remove the wrong piece and everything comes crashing down.
So, yes, Dolfans, your driving partner in the “Suck for
Luck” truck has it worse, which seems pretty hard to believe.
Why, exactly?
Well, no matter how the season finishes—and at April’s
Draft, for that matter—the rhetoric will change in Miami. Tony Sparano will be fired, a new
general manager hired and a total reevaluation of how things are done will take
place. Stephen Ross is desperate for a winner, and his failed attempt to lure
Jim Harbaugh shows he may know how to pick em.
Landing Luck will help tremendously, but no matter what, hope
will spring eternal, especially if a new coach can get individuals to play as a
team.
Because of the last decade’s over-reliance on Manning, Indianapolis could be
stuck, even if they do end up with the first pick. Sure, Caldwell will probably be gone. But is that
enough to make you feel like things will be turned around? Bill Polian, a
skilled talent evaluator, needs to be criticized for leaving the cupboard too
bare.
Even if Manning had been healthy enough to play, some of
last season’s frustrations would have reappeared this season. The Colts
constantly preach “Next Man Up,” but because of their lack of the depth, they
cannot practice it.
I’d imagine the mentality of a Colts fan, at this point, is
similar to what Hunter S. Thompson’s was in 1972, as he sat atop a hill,
looking over Las Vegas—minus the acid-induced haze, of course. There’s a
feeling that the best times are behind you, and they may have not had much
substance, anyway.
The Colts were built like a sand castle; it always seemed
indestructible, but all it takes is one wave and…
The narrative changes. Paranoia replaces euphoria quickly,
doesn’t it, Indianapolis?
Right now, it’s not fun being a Colts fan and things might not turn around for
a while.
It’s OK to rationalize, though. This was the right year to
stink it up, after all. What if the Colts take Luck, Manning mentors him and
there is a seamless transfer of power. Heck, all they need to do is fend off
the Dolphins and Rams. Better yet, Peyton could come back at 100 percent,
firing all cylinders.
But with a little un-Luck, the Colts could find themselves
on a meandering trek through the football desert.
A few months back, before the Red Sox crumbled, a pipe dream
began to materialize on Chicago’s
North Side. Maybe the Cubs, who would be looking to replace fired GM Jim
Hendry, could lure Boston’s
Theo Epstein, the proclaimed curse-killer.
It initially felt like something Cubs fans could use to talk
themselves down from the ledge.
But as straws were being grasped, the possibility was never
shot down by any of the involved parties—Epstein, Red Sox owner John Henry,
Cubs officials. And of course, as we now know, the environment in Boston had become toxic,
to the point that Epstein’s potential departure would seem justified.
What once seemed like a long shot became reality, because of
a combination of good fortune and unparalleled opportunity.
Yeah, that’s right, Cubbies. Luck is on your side—for the
time being, at least. If that isn’t reason to raise an ice-cold Old Style in
celebration, I don’t know what is. The “Lovable Losers,” whose star-crossed
history includes run-ins with a Billy goat and a black cat, seem destined for a
run at respectability.
None of this means Theo—and his haircut—will deliver a long-desired championship. Even for someone with
Epstein’s resume, remodeling the Cubs will present a unique challenge. What do
you do with Carlos Zambrano? How long will it take to replenish the farm
system? And these questions will need to be answered with a smaller budget than
he had in Boston.
One thing is certain: Epstein’s arrival has removed the
malaise that had surrounded the franchise by season’s end and replaced it with
optimism. For Cub faithful—and its 103 years of baggage—the possibility that the
C on the cap will stand for competence has to be reassuring.
Temporarily, at least, it’s good to be a Cubs fan, and that’s
not an everyday mindset.
All the hot air that was beginning to collect in Chicago has made it way
eastward. Almost unbelievably, Red Sox Nation has reached a pre-2004 level of
tension, enough to cut with a knife. Kind of like the one that was twisted into
Terry Francona’s back this week. If the season’s collapse wasn’t enough, now
Tito has to deal with rumors that he had turned into an addict.
The whole situation reeks of desperation, bad PR and a lack
of accountability. It’s time for the Red Sox organization—especially those who
threw Francona under the bus—to look at itself in the mirror.
Do like what you see, what you’ve become? No, fear not,
you’re not turning into your mother; it’s you’re Daddy, the New York Yankees,
staring back.
The Red Sox—after a few championships—have become faceless,
corporate shills, whose main motivation is to overspend problems. There issues
go much deeper than a few guys eating fried and drinking PBR—something tells me
that Josh Beckett enjoys Pabst—during games.
Once the Red Sox realize they’ve become what they detest, it
could be time to right the ship. In the meantime, though, they may scare off
the “next Theo,” which could send the franchise on another decade-long
tailspin.
If that’s the case, you know how Red Sox Nation will handle
it, with a sense of irrationality and angst, of course.
Epstein, no doubt, will have stakes just as large. If he can
put a Billy Goat mount next to the Bambino head in his trophy room, he will be
the stuff of legends, a sure-fire, first-ballot hall of famer.
Go ahead, Cubs fans, you can smile at the possibility.
1) If it wasn’t apparent during the regular season, last night proved why
Brian Cashman pushed so hard for Cliff Lee. The day after, the popular narrative seems to be that another
underwhelming posteason performance from A-Rod cost the Yanks. But it goes
deeper than that. The Evil Empire, for all of its resources, lacked depth,
especially in its starting rotation. Because of a few mid-season deals, Detroit had more weapons
and it showed.
2) Speaking of “Tigers,” Dan Patrick posed a good question this morning:
Who will bounce back sooner Tiger or A-Rod? With all things equal—mainly
injuries—you have to go with Tiger, even with his two-season long slump. The
mid-30’s are far kinder to a golfer, unless you’re juicing, of course. Can’t
put it past A-Rod, can you?
3) Get your act together, David Stern! Tonight’s “all-star” exhibition
at FIU is not enough for NBA fans waiting for an NBA season that won’t start on
time.
4) It hasn’t been a particularly good week for Bill Parcells, as if he
actually cares. The Tuna, now insulated in Bristol with ESPN—again, has been ripped for,
basically, sucking at his old job, most notably in a column written by FOX
Sports’ Jason Whitlock. Here’s the blunt truth about Parcells’ football
blueprint: it’s outdated. Before he was convinced to join the Dolphins, he had
laid out a contingency plan that would protect his legacy and massage his ego.
If there was any short-term success, which was the case in 2008, he’d look like
a genius.
When things went wrong, he’d be on
the first golf cart out of Miami,
leaving Jeff Ireland and Tony Sparano to run things into the ground. And they
did. Mercifully, though, people have been on top of this from the beginning. It’s
not that he never could “pick the groceries;” it’s that he was too egotistical
to adapt to the NFL’s changing landscape.
And for that, only Dolphins fans
should have beef.
5) Week 5 Best Bet: Detroit (-6) over Chicago
Maybe the Lions aren’t that good (a
few 20-point comebacks in a row aren’t necessarily a good sign); maybe they are
really good. I don’t really know, nor do I care. The Lions are 4-0, baby! Why
can’t they keep it going?
What the PGA Tour’s “Fall Series” lacks in sheer star power, it makes up with compelling finishes. Even with the big guns typically shelved for the remainder of the season, the drama doesn’t cease in the year’s final stretch. With fringe players vying for position on the money list—the top-125 players get their tour card renewed—there is still a sense of urgency, and as a result, some fantastic golf.
At last year’s Justin Timberlake Shriners Hospital Open in Las Vegas, the event that kicks off the “Fall Series,” Jonathan Byrd notched his fourth career victory in unbelievable fashion, recording an ace on the fourth playoff hole. Not something you see everyday, right?
And I’m guessing you probably didn’t see it. Even the most avid PGA Tour fan—myself included—will probably choose football over golf on a random fall weekend.
You can throw any preconceived notions about the tour’s season-ending stretch away this year, though. There’s this guy that’s decided to join the autumn golf party. You may have heard of him; he’s this dude named Tiger. Woods’ presence in San Martin, Calif. this weekend should only add to what tends to be an exciting—and often overlooked—part of the year. So, yes, the most recognizable golfer on the planet will bring more eyeballs to the Frys.com Open, but what can we expect from him?
Woods, whose world golf ranking has plummeted to no. 51, will try to break his two-year winless streak in a tournament he’s never entered. The flexibility in what is typically a non-negotiable playing schedule was a criterion for making the U.S. Presidents Cup team, who will be competing in November in Australia.
Last time you saw Tiger, he was probably raking a bunker at the Atlanta Athletic Club. Honestly, it’s been that kind of year for him. Every time he seems to be regaining some of his old championship form, he ends up right back in a bunker—both literal and figurative. For no reason other than pedigree, I’ve been premature in predicting his revival. Because of this, and his underwhelming performance at the PGA, I am no longer willing to say “this will be the week.”
In all honesty, I have no clue whether Tiger Woods will ever win again. That’s kind of a profound statement, and one that I thought I’d never type or say. It is understandable, though, that people may be growing tired of this rhetoric. After all, Tiger’s fall and his subsequent inability to rebound have become tired talking points for golf fans.
What should you expect from him this weekend? I have no clue. Part of me still finds this “anything is possible” factor really exciting. The other part, though, is still uncomfortable with all the uncertainty surrounding Woods’ golf game.
One thing is for sure, I’ve never been more interested in what the world’s 51st-ranked player would do next. Well, that may not be true; I am a golf nerd, after all. But what about you? Even if you could care less about golf, you’re probably wondering what Woods’ next chapter will be.
Maybe it starts this weekend at a tournament that is more substance than flash. For the man whose mere presence was once a spectacle in and of itself, it could be just what the doctor ordered.
As time slips by, and my memory bank becomes cluttered, it has become increasingly evident that things are going to blur together. My college social life was not filled with individual parties, for example; it was one giant bash. There are events, of course, that are going to resonate more than others, and those particular memories are how we contextualize our pasts.
Like, this one night during my sophomore year. I don’t remember the totality of the evening; I just remember that before we went out, my buddy Brad washed down two Advil with a Miller Lite. For full disclosure, if memory serves me correct, we were sharing a six pack.
I remember thinking, “Damn, that was incredibly stupid, dude.”
Robert, our friend who watched the whole scene, shared my sentiment. But he definitely said something to him, because there was a half-hour long debate on whether Brad would become a “statistic.”
He didn’t, of course. And, truthfully, it was the last time I thought about mixing booze with pain medication.
Well, until the closing days of my college career, at least. There was this incident that took place at the final party I attended as an undergraduate. Because some of us were sensing our college mortality, there was definitely a weird vibe permeating the barely lit basement. What I didn’t know was that the party would double as one of those unforgettable memories and a night-long PSA for the dangers of alcohol.
The night started off rather innocuously, in fact. Shots were poured, someone’s—probably my—manhood was challenged, and shots were imbibed. Standard fare at The Speakeasy.
For whatever reason, I wasn’t interested in tailing along with my friends on this particular evening. Perhaps it was because, after four years of shared experiences, I already knew what their nights would be like. Brad would be bubbly and charming, and would do so while exposing all three of his chest hairs; Robert would find some way to stir the pot; Ted and Erin would dance, get into some kind of fight, resolve their issues, and be tucked into bed by 1 a.m.
These storylines had played out so many times.
With this in mind, a few of us decided to find some new blood. And I have to say, the following conversations were pretty forgettable. Three of us—Brad, Jordan and myself—had, after a few minutes of bouncing around, decided to talk to a girl wearing a blue dress.
Quickly, we found out some interesting nuggets that helped make the following events make sense: she was a freshman, she appeared—and it was shortly confirmed—to be quite intoxicated and she had taken pain medication. This, ladies and gentleman, was the recipe for a shit show.
Knowing this, I decided to proceed with caution, but I have to admit that I was intrigued by the whole scene. No, I had no real aesthetic interest in this girl, and I had no grand plan of seduction for someone I would probably never talk to again. That’s not really the way I operate. I had a sneaking suspicion, however, that something ridiculous would happen, because she kept mentioning the pain pills.
And, boy, I was right.
Brad would soon leave our little group, which if you know him is hardly surprising, because the man is a social butterfly. He had to spread his wings, I suppose. If anything exciting were to happen, it would have to be with Pain Pills (the girl) and Jordan. Now, with a clearer head—sans booze—I would have left immediately. Sure, some funny shit wouldn’t have happened, but Jordan could have used the one-on-one time.
Instead, our trio stayed in tact as we bounced around the house, usually with Jordan bringing up the rear. This caused there to be some questioning of intentions. Now, I’m a little hazy on what immediately followed; however, I do know that certain people—Liam and Zach (enter laughs here)—were trying to forcibly detach Jordan from our mini-group.
This certainly irked Jordan who was clearly interested in “trying” some Pain Pills, if you catch my drift. Again, this is where I should have exited stage left, though if I had, we wouldn’t have witnessed something unforgettable.
Realizing that we had gone outside, Jordan focused on the target and made his move. There was one small problem, though. Taylor, another friend, was standing on the front porch and was in the way. Whether this was intentional or just mere coincidence, she’d have to tell you. But let’s just say, Jordan didn’t really give a damn, and he decided to shove her out of the way.
Somehow—wait, no, it was definitely because he wasn’t drinking—Liam was able to lunge towards Taylor and make a perfect catch. It was a pretty surreal moment; I mean, mild-mannered Jordan Wood had just pushed someone down the stairs. If this wasn’t amazing enough, once we had decided to go inside, he jogged over to a tree, bent to one knee and crossed himself.
I almost lost it. Now, I fully support his attempts to be outgoing, and with a little more foresight, I would have done some more facilitating. But this was so over-the-top. Unfortunately, his quest would ultimately be cut short. You see, once Pain Pills made it inside, her condition had deteriorated to the point that she needed to rush to the bathroom. Kids, I hope you learned a lesson today: Never drink your body weight in Vodka after taking pain medication.
As Jordan arrived, and subsequently surveyed the situation, he quickly realized that his lady friend was no longer there. No, love would have to wait until a later date. The big group that was assembled made sure that she and her friends made it home safely. We all felt bad that Pain Pills had lost her lunch, but now we had another story for anytime we felt like taking a stroll down memory lane.
We’re going to get further away from that party, because time is always moving forward. Some of our collective memories of the following days and weeks are probably gone, in fact.
But, no worries, we’ll always be able to say, “Remember that one time Jordan gave Taylor the People’s Elbow…”
P.S.: We actually saw Pain Pills in July. It took me a while to remember who she was, but once I did, I laughed pretty hard. I kept saying, “The Return of Pain Pills!” Taylor thought this was pretty hilarious, and to her credit, so did Pain Pills. (Mackenzie, I believe) She was a good sport. And yes, Jordan was still interested. So if anyone finds this girl again, you need to set her up with him. Still looking out for you from the Sunshine State, Woody!
It’s almost time to say goodbye to our favorite bros.
Well, the ones that have taken us on an entertaining—albeit, very glorified—ride through Hollywood, at least. There are only two episodes left for Vince and the gang to tie up all the loose ends that Doug Ellin, Entourage’s creator, has left hanging in the balance. For the show’s fans, next Sunday will mark the end of an era.
Or so you would think.
As I’ve reminisced the past few weeks, it’s becoming increasingly apparent that “Entourage” ended up being two different shows. Sure, it seems similar to what it’s always been, but the past few years have been fundamentally different, which makes the impending season finale feel stranger than it should.
Not that it should carry any less emotional weight for the viewer; it just feels more like the summation of only the show’s second half.
In the beginning, Vince, who was still an up-and-coming actor, was the impetus for everything that happened within the scope of Entourage’s fake Hollywood. In a realer sense, though, the word entourage seemed to have a negative connotation. These were supposed to be mooches and saps that gave a star short-term gratification, but didn’t really have anything of substance to give back.
And on the surface, it would appear that Eric, Turtle and Drama fit into this categorization. But, of course, their bond with Vince has always remained true. Their connection has created a foundation for the show, and it has not changed over the course of the series. What has changed is Vince’s role as an enabler.
It was always a half-hour of escapist television because Vince—given his celebrity standing—would get the “hookup.” That meant girls, parties, flat-screens, new kicks for Turtle, etc. Because of this, there was a huge emphasis on Vince’s career and the inner-workings of Hollywood. That was what made Entourage’s world possible. As the show has progressed, though, E, Turtle and Drama are no longer satiated by being handed everything.
They want to escape from Vince’s shadow.
As a result, they’ve all become more self-aware. For some, this makes the show not as appealing, because the secondary characters, who were more interesting than Vince, anyway, are driven by different desires. There is a realization that who they were—Turtle’s penchant for pot-smoking and easy women, for example—isn’t what they want forever. (This type of self-realization probably would never happen with a real entourage.)
Instead of functioning as a unit, each individual member of the Entourage is forging his own path. This all makes the show feel less “Hollywood.” There has been a noticeable lack of celebrity cameos this season, and very little mention of Vince’s career. He’s still doing that Airwalker movie, right?
We are now watching the final—and somewhat surprising—evolution of some unforgettable characters.
Turtle: He was clearly the most comfortable being one of Vince’s lackeys at the show’s onset. For being Vince’s driver, he was given an unlimited supply of weed and got to live the good life. To outsiders—especially, Ari—he was pretty useless. And for a few seasons, Turtle had no problem with this; after all, he was banking in on a pretty sweet setup. This obviously changed, though. He had his failed managerial relationship with Saigon, the rapper, not the city, of course. Then, he tried and failed at a relationship with Jamie-Lynn Sigler, and his subsequent foray into the Tequila business. All of this has him still trying to break away from Vince. “I want to do it on my own, Vince,” he says repeatedly. Watch an old episode of the show and compare that Turtle to his current incarnation, it’s somewhat unsettling. Will Turtle succeed at the Italian food game?
Johnny Drama: Remember when Drama was Vince’s personal chef. Well, he’s still just as irrational and prone to a bad anxiety attack. But in the interim he’s had some career success—a few roles that he got because of Vince turned into a regular spot on a network sitcom, which he lost because, well, he’s freaking neurotic. There was a moment in last week’s episode where this self-awareness theme was striking. After all the craziness with the Johnny Banana’s strike, he tells Dice that maybe this is who he is—you know, the crazy guy with a penchant for self-sabotage. Drama knows who he is now. Will his show new potential hit cartoon actually happen?
E: Because Eric was Vince’s manager, he always seemed the most self-aware already. He always obsessed about how to make people think he was actually skilled at his work. His neurosis hurt him at times, but he now runs a full-fledged agency with associate Scott Lavin, a great late-addition to the show. But he still has his fair share of problems. He is still in love with Sloan, and he seems to know it—even if it only became apparent after a sexual encounter with her former step-mother. What happens there?
Ari: They were never going to put “consummate family man” on Ari Gold’s grave, but you’d never think his disintegrating personal life would ever affect his agency. Well, it may take it away from him. Another telling exchange from last week: Babs saying that two women now had L.A.’s biggest chauvinist by the balls. He finally seemed to come to grips with the divorce, as long as it didn’t threaten his agency, of course. He then saw Bobby Flay emerge from “his” kitchen when he wanted a word with Mrs. Ari (Melissa). I really thought he would bitch-slap Bobby Flay like he handled Adam Davies in the past. But this is an evolved Ari Gold. He seems to know his temper—among other vices—ended his marriage. What happens to Ari next?
Vince: It was hard to imagine that A-list star—is he supposed to be A-list?—Vincent Chase would ever end up in drug rehab, but obviously that’s what happens when you date porn stars, right? Vince did drug rehab, and when he left seemed like a sterile version of happy-go-lucky self. What drove him to become more self-aware this season? A Vanity Fair profile. Go journalism! He spent last week’s episode realizing that he’s probably never had a deep, meaningful relationship with a woman. Viewers have known this for years, but it’s finally bothering Vince. Does he come to grips with this in next few episodes?'
Next Sunday will bring an end to the character-driven second half of Entourage. It’s not really escapist television anymore; it’s all about what happens to our favorite bros when they face some real-life problems. I bet everything ends on happy note.
Authors note: Since the nature of the following story could be construed as damning, some names have been slightly altered. Not enough for anyone to notice the difference, though. Sorry, guys.
Jews are masochists.
There’s the whole indifference towards Jesus thing. Yeah, sure, they think he was a pretty cool guy, but he didn’t quite make the Messiah cut. No, they’re still waiting for the biggest thing, well, since Jesus.
But what happened on a chilly October 2009 night has nothing to do with JC. In fact, the possibility that a greater being was watching from upstairs is sort of unsettling. You see, what we initially intended to be a simple religious celebration, instead, turned into a night defined by petty crime.
For a practicing Jew, Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year; it’s an opportunity to strengthen one’s relationship with God by atoning for the past year’s sins. This is done by a whole lot of praying and fasting: no food, no water, no tooth brushing, etc. For us, it was an opportunity to watch our college friend, Steven Likener, stuff his face as he was “breaking the fast.”
Last year, he decided to take down a one-pound burger, washing it down with a big milkshake. Steven’s performance was Herculean, but in the grand scheme of things, it will prove to be utterly forgettable because of what happened the year before.
Nothing could ever top our romp through Olive Garden.
Because it was the time of year when they offer the Never-Ending Pasta Bowl, which is coincidently back for a limited time, it seemed like a logical place to gorge. There was—possibly due to some sort of divine intervention—a lengthy wait to get seated. Or maybe the rest of Bloomington’s Jewish community had the same idea we had.
When you’re there, you may be family—but let’s be real, you’re probably an angry family because you’re eating at Olive Garden.
Well, the wait was making us realize we were slowly becoming that irritated family. Roger Stranger, my brother for all intents and purposes, was getting quite restless. We needed to figure out a way to forget that we were still waiting at an Olive Garden, had already watched the sun set and hadn’t already consumed our body weight in pasta.
The answer: cheap wine, of course.
Roger sauntered over to the bar and said, “Can I try one of your Chiantis?”
This later would become a staple of any of our visits to an Italian restaurant, but for now, it was brought on by sheer curiosity. The barkeep must have sensed that we were pretty impatient; after all, she was dealing with the type of people who order a whole bottle of wine before being seated.
Now, I was still 20 at the time, so I wasn’t going to enjoy any of Roger’s red wine. There’s a chance I may have had a sip, but this wasn’t where the night took a devious turn.
No, instead, Roger had changed his motives for the evening; it was no longer about eating every type of pasta on the menu. Let’s just say the forecast had quickly become a whole lot more wet.
We had to start asking ourselves, “Would he finish a whole bottle of Chianti by himself, and what would happen if he did?”
As we were finally being seated, Roger carried the recently uncorked bottle over to the table. But it was inside of a silver bucket. At the time, I thought nothing of this rather unremarkable vessel, and figured it was a good way of ensuring that nobody ruined Roger’s cheap Chianti.
He placed it in the middle of the table, as if it were some kind of trophy. It soon, however, was not the center of attention. We had to divert our focus to what was happening on the other side of the table: Steven, who was fist-deep in a bowl of Fettuccine Alfredo, was about to finish his third bowl of pasta.
“Good God,” I said. “Steven actually is eating his body weight in pasta. This is pretty damn incredible.”
He didn’t have time to answer, though; he was too busy making up for a day of atonement.
While this was happening, Roger’s mission to down the Chianti became a clandestine operation. Nobody was even paying attention because we were too deep into a philosophical conversation, the details of which are a little bit murky. I know it touched on some frequently debated subjects: girls, booze, girls who drink booze, booze with girls on the label, etc.
Yeah, ladies, we were just that awesome.
When there was finally a break in the conversation, I noticed that Roger was making a pretty big dent in the Chianti. Almost on cue, he grabbed the attention of the table, and started to talk about a great idea he just had.
I didn’t even have to listen to the words that were coming out of his mouth because of the look on his face. If you know Roger, you probably know what I’m talking about. Perhaps because he had just finished his fourth glass of vino, he had become a little starry-eyed and had popped his mischievous smile.
“Oh shit, we’re about to do something incredibly stupid,” I thought.
I was right.
Mr. Stranger wanted to leave Olive Garden with the now-finished wine bottle and the silver bucket it had been served in. After a few minutes of scheming, it was time to try and pull it off. We had already reached the point of no return. As we got up from the table, Frank Sinatra started crooning…
“I've got a song that I sing; I can make the rain go, anytime I move my finger”
I started to try and rationalize what was about to happen. Well, maybe ‘Ol Blue Eyes will be watching over us.
Roger stuffed the bucket under his shirt, and started making his way towards the exit. I have to say, he looked like a fat robot.
There was a big bulge where his chest was supposed to be and some not-so inconspicuous parts of silver were sticking out.
Simply, we looked like a bunch of dumbasses. Well, dumbasses that were thoroughly enjoying themselves, at least.
Something that was reinforced that night: It’s good to have friends in high places. Or maybe even a few that bus tables at Olive Garden. With our buddy’s help, we were able to make a somewhat dramatic getaway.
When we made it home a few minutes later, a few of us were filled with pasta, others—well, actually just Roger—had a relatively strong buzz going, but we all felt accomplished.
It may have only been worth a few cents, but we beat the Olive Garden that night. We stuck it to the man.
And yes, we had become petty thieves.
A few weeks ago, as an era was ending, I came across that silver bucket again. It had been chilling next to a few books on a bookshelf, picking up a little bit of dust. I went into the kitchen grabbed a ping pong ball (yes, college kids keep ping pong balls in the kitchen), went back in the living room and tried to make trick shots into the bucket.
After a few minutes, Roger joined in on the game; it was just like that early-‘90s McDonald’s commercial with Michael Jordan and Larry Bird, except nothing was going in.
We both really sucked, but we kept trying anyway. The whole thing became downright masochistic.
But no matter, that bucket does not now represent the realization of pleasure through deprivation. I’ll always remember it for exactly the opposite reasons, actually.
For one night, no matter how stupid it seems, we could not be denied.
There was a time in the not-so-distant past when Tiger Woods’ mere presence at a major championship would cause his stiffest competition to shake in its spikes.
When he reached the first tee on Sundays, dressed in his traditional red, there was always a sense of finality—as in, we’re about to witness history because all these other poor souls have no chance.
It was the most intimidating scene in sports; the successor to Michael Jordan preening around a basketball court or Muhammad Ali entering the ring. Tiger could hit a tiny white ball better than anyone on the planet, but that wasn’t as impressive as the aura he created.
Before an iron was struck, Woods was in every golfer’s head.
But as he arrives at the Atlanta Athletic Club for “Glory’s Last Shot,” it’s clear that Tiger has reached unchartered territory.
For the first time in his career, it feels like he has no shot.
Sure, given his disintegrating personal life and troublesome injuries, it’s been a while since Woods was anything close to a certainty. But even at his least prepared—the 2006 U.S. Open and 2010 Masters come to mind—there was a lingering notion that maybe he would contend, at least.
Not anymore. The guy who used to play Jedi mind tricks on major championship fields has become a prisoner of his own subconscious.
The legendary Bobby Jones, whose home course was coincidentally the Atlanta Athletic Club, famously said, “Competitive golf is played mainly on a five-and-a-half-inch course...the space between your ears.”
I vaguely remember the first time I heard those prophetic words of wisdom. My grandfather, who was my golf-watching companion, was a sucker for these kinds of witticisms or anecdotes, so naturally he repeated Jones’ quote at some point.
For a six-year-old kid, whose mind could barely grasp non-literal concepts, the idea was pretty strange. What do you mean the guy who hits it the furthest and straightest doesn’t always win?
Well, it turns out the old men were right. Physical ability and raw skill will only get you so far in competitive golf. Being able to stave off the self-doubt that creeps in and creating a mentally strong makeup is essential for success.
When he’s at his best, Woods has proven that he has gifts that make the ordinary weekend hacker drool. But as supremely talented as he is, he’s a 14-time major champion because of the seemingly bulletproof competitive psyche he had created.
Since the fallout from his much-publicized scandal, it’s like someone has taken out a 2-iron and unleashed several whacks at Tiger’s confidence.
There are still moments when it appears that he can summon his championship form, especially when he has a mid-iron in hand. But these are brief respites for a man who’s dealing with persistent self-doubt on a golf course for the first time.
You can see it sneak in when he three-putts or skulls a simple chip around a green. These were things that a focused, mentally strong Tiger Woods would almost never do.
Perhaps brought on by unrealistic expectations, he appears, at this point, to be trying to reacquire stability by implementing constant change. He fired long-time caddie Steve Williams, overhauled his swing and has even grown some Darius Rucker-esque facial hair
Seems like things a golfer who is mentally wandering and grasping at straws would do, right?
Still, though, Tiger promises that he isn’t just some “other guy,” and insists that he believes he can win every time he enters a tournament. For the time being, his words are hollow; in fact, they are downright unbelievable.
His career revival may come some at some point down the road, but it won’t be this weekend. It’s not because his swing is slightly off plane, or his putting stroke needs to be fixed.
