Mets vs. Royals: Fatal Flaw

Standard

Being a sports fan is allowing one’s self to indulge in childhood frovility; it’s being Peter Pan in a world where people lean in to glean bon mots regarding Presbyterianism and the mystery of being a Seventh Day Adventist from Donald Trump; and in the next few days, the New York Mets will allow this middle-aged man to recapture a little bit of his youth as the Metropolitans play country hardball versus the Kansas City Royals.

Mets Fan?

The New York Mets will enter baseball’s Fall Classic with a team that was significantly upgraded at Major League Baseball’s trading deadline. Previous to the trading deadline, the Mets were impotent offensively. Their flaccid bats were in need of a powerful injection and the Mets’ front office found that in the Cuban slugger, Yoenis Cespedes.

Hammering all those crab legs could be the reason Cespedes has a sore shoulder.

Thirteen minutes before the trading deadline, Mets general manager Sandy Alderson sent two minor league pitchers to the Detroit Tigers and acquired an explosive bat that Mets manager Terry Collins could pencil into the cleanup position for the remainder of the season. Of course, the Mets were on the hook for the remainder of Cespedes’ contract, which was a prorated portion of the $3.7 million that Tigers owner Mike Illitch owed to Cespedes and eminently affordable to a New York Mets ownership that had been nearly financially-ruined by making major financial investments with Bernie Madoff’s ponzi scheme.

According to author Steve Kettmann and his book released in the spring of 2015: Baseball Maverick: How Sandy Alderson Revolutionized Baseball and Revived the Mets, Alderson had somehow already revived a moribund Mets organization despite ignoring the fact that the Mets had last made the playoffs in 2006 under the direction of former general manager, Omar Minaya.

Sheridan’s Recommended Reading List for any Self-Respecting Mets Fan:

  1. Can’t Anybody Play This Game? The Improbable Saga of the New York Mets’ First Year by Jimmy Breslin 
  2. The Worst Team Money Could Buy by Bob Klapisch and John Harper
  3. The Bad Guys Won: A Season of Brawling, Boozing, Bimbo Chasing, and Championship Baseball with Straw, Doc, Mookie, Nails, the Kid and the Rest of the … Put on a New York Uniform–and Maybe the Best by Jeff Pearlman
  4. High and Tight: The Rise and Fall of Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry by Bob Klapisch 
  5. Baseball Maverick: How Sandy Alderson Revolutionized Baseball and Revived the Mets 

Prior to baseball’s July 31st trading deadline and the addition of Cespedes, the Mets held the unwanted distinction of being the most inept offensive team in the National League. The 2015 Mets are the first team in Major League Baseball history to enter the World Series after averaging the fewest runs per game through Opening Day to July 31st. Alderson’s deal had very little to do with revolutionizing baseball, but was the product of desperation and need: The Mets needed a bat in the middle of the order. Any bat.

Alderson’s deal to acquire Cespedes wasn’t rooted in the algorithms of Big Data Baseball or enhanced analytics, but was rooted in a basic premise familiar to Mets fans throughout the years, the Mets offense was incapable of scoring even a meager amount of runs. The Mets were squandering superior starting pitching – and wins – that could easily carry the team to the post-season with an offensive attack that was worthy of a team in the Single A New York-Penn League.

The acquisition of Cespedes was triggered by Alderson backing out of a deal for Milwaukee Brewers slugger, Carlos Gomez, when it was revealed that Gomez was suffering from an injured hip that somewhat plagued him through Houston’s playoff run. In the Gomez deal, the Mets were willing to part with shortstop Wilmer Flores and starting pitcher Zack Wheeler, who is recovering from Tommy John surgery. In acquiring Gomez, the Mets would have held his rights through the 2016 season, but Cespedes will be eligible for free agency after the World Series, where he will be able to demonstrate to his Cuban brethren the power of Yanqui capitalism.

Both the Astros and Mets benefited from their respective trade deadline deals, but Cespedes went on a tear at the plate that forced the prognosticators and pundits to reconsider the Mets. Cespedes’ performance, and his ability to carry a team on his back, was reminiscent of what New York’s iconic slugger, Darryl Strawberry, was capable of in his prime. Alderson’s accidental acquisition of Cespedes coupled with the continuing emergence of a trio of starting pitcher power arms, in the likes of Jacob deGrom, Matt Harvey and Noah Syndergaard, catapulted the Mets to the top of the National League East.

The Straw Man

Cespedes’ intimidating presence in the four hole, hitting behind Daniel Murphy, has allowed Murphy to wage an assault on the postseason record books, with a combined seven home runs clouted in the NLDS and NLCS and a streak of six consecutive games with a homer. The last two Big Apple second basemen to enjoy such postseason success were Billy Martin and Brian Doyle, who wore pinstripes for the Bronx Bombers.

Billy “The Kid” Martin

For those Mets fans who are planning a social media campaign to convince Sandy Alderson and Paul DePodesta to throw around big bucks and sign Cespedes, here is a cautionary tale that may temper your enthusiasm. Cespedes has a lot of dog in him, and that is likely only going to get worse when he receives a contract that will make him one of Cuba’s richest citizens. Through Mets history, there has been a rich tradition of under performing free agent outfielders who were cancers in the clubhouse.

  1. Bobby Bonilla
  2. Vince Coleman – (Played for both the Mets and the Royals. 105 players in Major League Baseball history have played for both teams.)
  3. George Foster

Major League Baseball is no longer a simple affair, where preseason prognostications can reasonably predict the teams that will play on into October. At or near this year’s trading deadline, three teams (Mets, Rangers and Blue Jays) were able to significantly re-tool their rosters by adding impact players, and enter the last 60 games with teams pumped-up and prepared for postseason hardball.

The Mets and Royals are similar yet starkly different. The Royals rely on a lockdown bullpen to safeguard any lead. The Mets’ success will be based on their starting pitchers’ ability to pitch deep into the seventh or eighth inning. Each team has a reliever that could be considered a fatal flaw. The Royals have Ryan Madson ready to puke on the mound, and the Mets have Tyler Clippard who looks at every batter as if they’re the Son of Sam serial killer. Madson and Clippard are poised to join the pantheon of bullpen buffoonery, where they will find company with Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams, Calvin Schiraldi, Bob Stanley and Byung-hyun Kim.

The Royals have the best positional team in baseball, but their starting pitching cannot compare to the Mets, and it is starting pitching that will carry the Mets to a World Series title. The Mets cannot manufacture runs relying on aggressive base running and team speed like the Royals are able to do. The Mets have a starting shortstop, Wilmer Flores, who lacks range going into the hole and runs the bases as if he is wearing concrete footwear provided by former New York gangster and enforcer, Andrew “The Squint” Sheridan. The Mets won’t be able to run on Royals catcher Salvador Perez like they were versus Cubs catcher, Miguel Montero.

At this time of year, there are no secrets. The baseball gods will bless one team and curse another. Two fan bases, who have been tortured and betrayed by incompetent ownership, will look to return to greatness that was last experienced in the 1980s.

The 1986 New York Mets are, and probably will be forever, the team that makes me thankful that I ever had a dad, a mom and grandparents who inculcated in me the legend of Cleon Jones. My early childhood obsession with Cleon Jones would lead to a 1986 fascination with Mookie and Lenny. In my experience as a fan, there has never been a team that I rooted for, which I thought was destined for greatness other than the 1986 Mets. I never found the Buckner game to be miraculous, because the 1986 Mets won in improbable ways throughout the season.

If this 2015 edition of the Mets wins the World Series, it will not compare to the championship of 1986, and that’s a shame, but adulthood robs you of youthful obsessions and fanboy devotion. Oh, I still desperately want the Mets to win, but this team does not consume my life and define me.

I don’t believe the possibility of getting into a fistfight over the defensive prowess of Royals first baseman Eric Hosmer and Mets first baseman Lucas Duda is in the fall forecast, but some things don’t completely change or do they?

PREDICTION: Mets in 7.

New York Mets: This Time It’s For Real

Standard

The Amazin’ Mets have jumped out to an early two-game lead versus Theo Epstein’s Chicago Cubs, and no Big Apple hardball devotee should feel supremely confident of a Mets 2015 NLCS victory. Unless you’re Pedro Martinez, who has decreed the series a forgone conclusion for the squad from Flushing.

For any self-respecting, long-suffering and resigned to endless mediocrity (That’s being polite.) Mets fan, the fall of 2015 will forever be remembered as the age of Daniel Murphy. Daniel Murphy has conjured and communicated with the spectral world and has gained strength from Shea Stadium ghosts named Donn Clendenon, Tommie Agee and Tug McGraw. Murphy has transcended the world most of us humans live in and is operating in a realm that is not quantifiable or familiar to the rest of us.

Daniel Murphy is morphing into an October play-off baseball god. Reggie Jackson will forever be known as Mr. October. Derek Jeter is Mr. November. And The Murph is what?

Daniel Murphy has always been a good professional hitter, but did anyone see Murphy as a force of nature repeatedly able to change the course of a baseball game with a flick of his wrists?

Being in the zone is something most of us are not familiar with or capable of comprehending. I thought I was once in the zone on a playground in Brighton, Massachusetts, located behind a ramshackle Friendly’s, where my jump shot refused to miss on rims that had more shake than a body double for Jennifer Lopez. I could not miss, but I wasn’t playing before 45,000 rabid Mets fans cheering for a dream that only months ago seemed beyond all reach; I was playing on a cracked asphalt playground hoops court, and no one cared too much and that included the guys playing in the game.

Daniel Murphy is for real.

Jacob de Grom is for real.

And all of a sudden, it feels pretty damn good to be a Mets fan. It’s nice to know that Yankee fans are watching our team in the play-offs.

Living in Massachusetts, I am the stranger in a strange land. No one cares that the Mets are creating magic in October. No one gives me a thumb’s up, or a confident and conspiratorial head nod when I wear my Mets sweatshirt.

I am alone in a foreign land. I watch the games solo and my fellow celebrants are diehard Mets fans scattered throughout this great land.

I have no compassion or empathy for long-suffering Cubs fans. I want to gain entry to the World Series this year. The Second City Cubs can wait for a second chance. With deGrom, Matz, Harvey and Syndergaard clamoring to grab the ball from Terry Collins’ hand, this feels for real.

This isn’t Kenny Rogers, there is no Billy Wagner blown save on the horizon, and it is physically impossible for former Met and current Yankee, Carlos Beltran, to look at a called third strike and end this NLCS for the Mets.

This time it’s for real.

When The Mets Win, Let’s All Go To The Bar!

Standard

“Only Dodgers fans go to heaven.” – Tommy Lasorda 

Former Los Angeles Dodgers skipper, Tommy Lasorda, believes in Frank Sinatra, Fernandomania and that God will only allow Dodgers fans to walk through St. Peter’s Pearly Gates; but a rail thin, hirsute 26-year-old fire-balling Met phenom, Jacob deGrom, is aiming to tear down the Temple of Baseball that Walter O’Malley built in the City of Angels and demonstrate to all that Jesus hates Chase Utley and that Chavez Ravine idolaters believe in a band of false prophets.

Jacob deGrom

Tonight’s win or go home Game 5 of the NLDS between the New York Mets and the Los Angeles Dodgers is where East meets West. This is where one team will earn the right to play the young and fearless Chicago Cubs, who have made Cubs fans believe that Steve Bartman can find redemption and that Theo Epstein’s rebuilding process is faster than Donald Trump’s fuzzy plan to Make America Great Again.

The Dodgers will answer deGrom with their own version of a starting pitcher savant: Zack Greinke. The 31-year-old, Greinke, possesses the laconic air of a character plucked from a Richard Linklater film and his shoulder-length blonde locks could be an homage to Linklater’s Dazed & Confused character, Mitch.

Zack “Mitch” Greinke

deGrom is angular and electric. Greinke is slow rollin’ and SoCal.

The Dodgers embody SoCal, and the Mets are now the caretakers of the Dodgers former Holy Land of Brooklyn. With O’Malley orchestrating and leading the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants exodus to the Land of Kardashian and TMZ, the Mets are the custodians of National League hardball in the five boroughs. This game is where the Mets can shed the elusive ghosts of Duke Snider, Roy Campanella and Jackie Robinson and allow Mets fans to celebrate their own Ya Gotta Believe magic and mystique of Mookie Wilson, Tug McGraw and Tom Seaver.

Praise The Lord, Sister!

After I conduct a practice with my youth soccer team, where I play the role of Morris Buttermaker, and have my patience tested by a bunch of eight and nine-year-old boys who make Tanner, Ahmad and Timmy Lupus look like a bunch of well-mannered Bad News Bears Boy Scouts; I will watch this game and attempt to ignore the pounding headache caused by this band of chronically ill-behaved and athletically-challenged youths.

Buttermaker 

It’s been alleged that sports are an opiate for the masses, but only a Mets victory will relieve the pain inflicted by these eight and nine-year old boys. With a Dodgers victory, I will not genuflect to the Big Dodger in the Sky, but I will head to the bar where salvation can be held and quantifiably measured in a magical concoction of amber liquid. The visages of Mary Hart and Larry King will not haunt me, as I peer into a glass, that is full of lost hope and bad baseball karma.

Only Jacob deGrom can offer sweet relief from a Dodgers win and to achieve that he must shut down a Dodgers offense that revolves around Howie Kendrick, Adrian Gonzalez, Justin Turner and Andre Ethier. deGrom needs to stifle these bats to give the Mets a chance at a Game 5 victory.

Tonight has the makings of a hardball masterpiece. Baseball fans need to take notice. Fuck the NFL’s Saints and and Falcons Thursday night offering. Ignore the NHL’s slate of games scheduled before The Great Pumpkin has had an opportunity to unveil itself.

Rusty “Le Grand Orange” Staub

Give proper respect to October baseball.

Pray for the recovery of Rusty Staub.

And allow the Mets, the goddamn woe begotten, downtrodden, Madoff fucked-over Mets a win.

Just one  … goddamn … fucking …  win!

Whiskey Streams of Consciousness

Standard

Since my last post, I have plunged into a netherworld of blackness and self-loathing that can be attributed to New York Rangers blues, the potential failure of my herb garden and wondering if I am lost Zulu king.

“And If you stare right there, I’m sure you’ll see the Zulu Queen.” – Professor Longhair

_________________

Yes, I made the maddening and illogical decision to start a herb and a vegetable garden. Being disposed to a blackness that can weigh down the soul, I have little faith that either garden will approximate the Bronx Botanical Garden but a strong belief that one or both could earn the designation of a Superfund toxic waste site.

Parsley may be coming up.

I’m rootin’ for the oregano.

I could give a shit about the dill.

_________________

The summer has arrived and I am coaching a Little League All-Star team. At our most recent practice, a nine-year-old player was spitting on one of his teammates. The offended party and future litigator responded to the aggressor with, “You know that’s assault.”

The Gaylord Perry spitter checked with his mother, who informed him that assault was only when you hit a person. When this juvenile delinquent enters the system, I hope he doesn’t retain his mother as legal counsel.

_________________

I always thought I never had any chance to play in the major leagues, but the New York Mets’ impotent offensive performance should give every man, woman and child a chance. The Mets should consider bringing back the big bats of Doug Flynn, Frank Tavares and Joel Youngblood.

_________________

Best New Summer Baseball Books:

1. Billy Martin: Baseball’s Flawed Genius by Bill Pennington

2. Baseball Maverick: How Sandy Alderson Revolutionized Baseball and Revived the Mets by Steve Kettmann

3. Pedro by Michael Silverman

_________________

Watching the Cards versus the Cubbies on Tuesday night, former Sheridan intern and Jameson enthusiast, Patrice Mooney, made a cameo on WGN’s telecast. I loved the Will Ferrell reference.

I’m rooting for the Cubbies to contend, but every liberal bone in my body dislikes the political views of the Ricketts family who own this Midwest treasure. I wonder how Cubs President Theo Epstein hashes that one out with his progressive politics.

_________________

If the Mexican drug cartels were anything like ISIS, Donald Trump would need to consult with Charlie Hebdo‘s Director of Security.

_________________

For the Fourth of July, I like many Americans traveled to a barbecue. Little did I know that this barbecue would be attacked by two sets of amateur fireworks detonating over the backyard. I thought I was in Fallujah.

Unrequited Stanley Cup Dreams

Standard

With the 2015 Stanley Cup Finals starting in a few hours, fans of the Tampa Bay Lightning and the Chicago Blackhawks are poised for what should be a six or seven-game series, dreams will appear and then disappear with the maneuvering of a composite stick on vulcanized rubber, and lives and schedules will be rearranged to accommodate this frozen crucible.

Stan Mikita and Coach Billy Reay

But I am still stuck – rigidly and obstinately – on the failure of the New York Rangers to reach the Stanley Cup Finals. The Rangers’ failure has simplified my life: I can continue to slog through Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall that is taking me longer to read than King Henry VIII’s courtship and marriage to Anne Boleyn; there is more time to devote to a sixth grade research paper on uber capitalist pig and then generous philanthropist, John D. Rockefeller; I can watch New York Mets’ rookie fireballer, Noah Syndergaard, record a preposterously weird pitching line of 10 strikeouts, zero walks, and seven earned runs in four innings versus the San Diego Padres and not feel a twinge of guilt that I am cheating on the Rangers; enthusiastically enjoy the Poseidon Adventure that is the Boston Red Sox; and not hear from a nine-year-old boy that I have a strange and puzzling devotion to a hockey team.

From the mouths of babes tumble pearls of wisdom, and perhaps a nine-year-old boy does have a better perspective on the failings of a Manhattan-based hockey team than does a 48-year-old middle-aged man, who falls into a two-hour funk, after witnessing the Tampa Bay Lightning conclude the 2015 Eastern Conference Finals with a 2-0 shutout of the Rangers in Madison Square Garden.

I inhabit a world where pathos is viewed as a luxury. To be down or depressed about a hockey team, which is comprised of millionaires and is owned by the truly loathsome James Dolan, and find there is scant tenderness to salve the bruised feelings of an emotionally stunted middle-aged moron is unvarnished reality. A nine-year-old has no patience for a grown man, with what some could perceive as an unhealthy obsession for a hockey team, which seems to produce more angst than happiness when one could achieve sublime happiness by pulling off the boss of all Pokemon trades. In reality, a well-crafted Pokemon trade takes far more skill than cheering for the Broadway Blueshirts.

I will watch Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals. Probably. But I’m not sure.

My feelings are somewhat analogous to attending a former girlfriend’s wedding, which I have never experienced nor longed to do, as I don’t believe “Asshole” would be socially acceptable on a table placement card and that no good has ever come out of a situation like this. Chances are the ex-girlfriend is going to look pretty good on her wedding day, lost some weight, bleached her teeth, shares rapturous (real or contrived) looks with her tool of a soon-to-be husband, and for the GODDAMN love of God don’t get caught by your date looking verklempt when there is the exchange of vows because after the reception you will be sharing your hotel room with a white walker. The better scenario is to attend the ex’s wedding and bring Caitlyn Jenner as your date, which is sure to deflect some attention from the bride.

So, I sit here. Pounding on this keyboard, jealous of Blackhawks fans who can root for the irrepressible Jonathan Toews, who is arguably better at his sport than LeBron James is at his sport. Yes, that is the brilliance of Jonathan Toews. And I want the Rangers to have a Jonathan Toews, but there is no else like Jonathan Toews or Caitlyn Jenner. Alex Ovechkin was supposed be Jonathan Toews, but he is merely Alex Ovechkin. Rene Richards was Caitlyn Jenner, but without the extensive Kardashian media machine behind her.

Perhaps the Rangers will return to the Stanley Cup Finals next year, where more than two months of my life will be invested in the pursuit of a freaking cup, but before that occurs, I plan to enjoy the sense of freedom that has returned to me. I won’t have to avoid newspapers for a day or two until I have found the time to watch the latest Rangers’ playoff tilt, I won’t view the making of dinner as an impediment to my playoff viewing schedule, and I won’t have to hear from my favorite Polish American how much she certifiably and unquestionably despises hockey.

My life is returning to what approaches a normal life. I soak tennis balls in ammonia to chase a mother raccoon and her three offspring from their den, because they are destroying the shed that sits above their home. I will coach Little League and hear some 10-year-old punk talking shit to our team’s first base coach, who happens to be me, and then I will respond by sending every base runner to steal second base. We’re playing that kid’s team again on Saturday, and I am all about fucking up his shit, except when the kid catches because he has a cannon of an arm.

The Rangers will become yesterday’s news. I’ll harbor an unhealthy dislike of Rangers’ defenseman and scapegoat, Dan Boyle, and that douche bag 10-year-old. I’ll start coaching a Little League All-Star team. I’ll try not to have the lawn look like napalm has been thrown on it. And I’ll think of what could have been for the Broadway Blueshirts.

Game 7 Lightning vs. Rangers: In King Henrik We Trust

Standard

It appears I am going to write another NHL/epic/Game 7/balls in your throat/Iceman Cometh/Bleed Broadway Blueshirt piece.

Two go in. One comes out.

This should be better than Pacquiao vs. Mayweather.

And In King Henrik We Trust.

______________________

The New York Post’s Larry Brooks wrote this week that we are living through the golden age of New York Rangers hockey and he is so right. In today’s 24/7 social media news cycle, it’s hard to fully appreciate the accomplishments of any sports franchise.

Tonight, the New York Rangers have the opportunity to play for the Stanley Cup, in consecutive years, by vanquishing the Tampa Bay Lightning in Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals. The last time the Rangers achieved this feat was in the 1932 and 1933 Stanley Cup Finals, where the Rangers lost to the Maple Leafs in 1932 and returned a year later to defeat Toronto in 1933.

Rangers fans have waited 82 years for this possibility to exist again. Being a cynical and pragmatic Rangers fan, there is no chance of this happening in my lifetime again. This is akin to hitting the lottery, winning the Scripps Spelling Bee and getting hit with lightning all in the same day.

1932-33 New York Rangers 

This edition of the Rangers is a flawed team anchored by a world class goaltender, Henrik Lundqvist. New York is a quagmire of ineptitude on the power play, they lack a true #1 center and struggle to win face-offs. Martin St. Louis is an aging future Hall-of-Famer, who has little left in the tank. If The Boss, George M. Steinbrenner, was alive, he would affix Rick Nash with the moniker of Mr. March.

The Rangers survive and advance because Henrik Lundqvist is the best goaltender in the world, and with where the game is heading, he may be the last master of his position who is under 6’5″. The 6’1″ Lundqvist is a tadpole compared to Tampa Bay’s goaltender, the 6’7″ Ben Bishop (Bishop played at Maine.  Maine Sucks!). Back in 1979, the Rangers advanced to the Stanley Cup Finals behind the stellar play of John Davidson between the pipes. At 6’3″, Davidson was considered one of the game’s first big goalies. Davidson’s ’79 squad lost to Montreal and ruined a twelve-year-old’s dream of a Stanley Cup.

JD

Hockey is not my favorite sport, but I make a greater effort to watch the Rangers and the NFL’s New York Giants than I do any other sports franchises. With the creation of the NHL Network, I tape one-hour re-broadcasts and religiously watch the Rangers as they provide some amount of heat in a long New England winter.

I root for no other NHL franchise. I possess a monogamous love for the Rangers.

The New Jersey Devils are more Bada Bing. The New York Islanders have a fan base comprised of Entourage’s Eric Murphy and Joey Buttafuoco. Boston Bruins’ diehards are fat men in unfashionable goatees who believe the Big Bad Bruins style of hockey is still relevant in 2015.

There is no coquettish and sexy competitor for my attention. The Rangers are my one true love, and no Long Island Lolita will ever change that.

Hockey is a cruel sport. Outcomes can sometimes be attributed to a lucky bounce of the puck, a deflection off the boards that defies the teachings of science and logic, and a call or non-call that has all the erudition and aplomb of an Antonin Scalia Supreme Court majority ruling.The Rangers will need the hockey gods and what remains of Madison Square Garden’s ghosts to overcome a young and talented Lightning squad,

But, most importantly, the Rangers will need Mr. GQ, Henrik Lundqvist, to lock down another Game 7. Lundqvist is the best big game goalie of his generation, and the Rangers will need every bit of his skill and experience to defeat the Triplets (Young Guns), Steven Stamkos (ASSHOLE!) and former Rangers, Brian Boyle (Boston College great) and Anton Stralman (Underrated).

PREDICTION: This game will rival the trial by combat between Gregor Clegane and Prince Oberon Martell. In typical one-goal give me an anxiety attack fashion, the Rangers will win tonight’s epic one for the ages Game 7 by a score of 2-1.

Game 7: Capitals vs. Rangers

Standard

A Game 7 in any sport is special, but a Game 7 in the NHL playoffs is something that crosses the boundary of sport and can become the subject of legend and lore. The New York Rangers and Washington Capitals will deliver us a Game 7 tonight in their Eastern Conference semifinal series.

The Capitals’ MiG jet superstar, Alex Ovechkin, has guaranteed a Game 7 win, which echoes the ballsy Broadway predictions of Joe Namath and Mark Messier. Ovechkin is the most dangerous and dynamic player in the NHL. His shot is a multitude of adjectives that simply cannot convey its power or precision, and tonight’s game is his invitation to enter the rarified space inhabited by hockey legends.

In his tenth season in the NHL, Ovechkin needs this win. The Capitals, as a franchise, need this win, but with need comes desperation. Ovechkin is a desperate hockey player, who is seeking a seat with the legends of the game, which has eluded him throughout his career. As an organization, the Capitals have placed their trust and future into the mercurial talent of this Russian master, but is the master finally mature enough and evolved enough to submit a game for the ages tonight?

As a hardcore Broadway Blueshirts fan, I hope Ovechkin has some bad borscht before tonight’s face-off. I happen to thoroughly enjoy the sheer power and breadth of Ovechkin’s talents, but if there is a year to win the Stanley Cup for the New York Rangers, this is it.

In Round One of the playoffs, the Rangers disposed of Sid “The Kid” Crosby and his Pittsburgh Penguins. There is no other resident superstar, in any sport, that I despise more than the weasel-like and chippy, Sidney Crosby. Crosby is a more talented version of Ken “The Rat” Linseman, who is a personal idol and did more to influence my street hockey game than any current or former NHL player. Former Rangers agent provocateur, Sean Avery, is a close second.

I don’t bear the same animosity to Ovechkin that I do to Crosby. With a body check that approaches the power of a Russian fighter jet, Ovechkin has the perverse ability to lay waste to an opposing player’s season with one hit. He is John Wick lethal. Crosby is a dilettante to the world of the body check, but is more comfortable with an unsuspecting hack to an opponent’s wrist or back of the knee. One is obvious. The other is a slash and grab man.

Putting aside the personal animosity of a loud and proud Sidney Crosby hater, tonight the New York Rangers can win a Game 7, recover from a 3-1 series deficit and give their fans the belief that the Stanley Cup could be carried down the streets of Manhattan.

When the puck drops, I will not be in front of the tv or at Madison Square Garden, where seats are selling for $800 a piece, but I will be at a Little League baseball game coaching up kids and trying to end a three-game losing streak. In a nefarious and cruel Faustian bargain, would I trade a four-game Little League losing streak for the opportunity to watch the Rangers take on the Tampa Bay Lightning in the Eastern Conference Finals? No comment.

This edition of the New York Rangers feels different. The quest for Lord Stanley’s Cup seems more tangible than it did last year, when they succumbed to the Los Angeles Kings in the Stanley Cup Finals. I haven’t possessed a feeling such as this, which I would almost describe as preordained, since the New York Mets won the World Series in 1986.

Dino Ciccarelli Sucks!

Why do I feel that way? Because this a talented and deep squad anchored by the best goaltender in New York Rangers history, and, depending on the day, is arguably the world’s best netminder.

Sheridan’s Top 5 New York Rangers Goalies

1. Henrik Lundqvist

2. Mike Richter

3. Eddie Giacomin

4. John Davidson

5. John Vanbiesbrouck

With the spectacular and reliable King Henrik in goal, the Rangers will need to overcome the shot-blocking mastery of the Capitals goalie, Braden Holtby. Throughout the series, this pair has submitted virtuoso performances that make this fan think he is watching a game of Pong, played on ice, circa 1977.

But the Rangers possess a talisman. A winger who wields powerful playoff mojo, has the ability to raise his game in crucial moments, and is encoded with a Bobby Nystrom genome series; I speak of Boston College’s own Chris Kreider. Kreider is New York’s answer to Alex Ovechkin.

A Jumpin’ Bobby Nystrom

If I were to search for a weakness – a chink in the Rangers’ playoff armor – I would look nowhere else but to Dan Boyle and Keith Yandle. Each of these defensemen is a talent in the offensive zone, each is adept on the Rangers’ impotent power play that should be a commercial break for both teams’ fans, but both Boyle and Yandle are capable of being exposed in the defensive zone. Boyle is no match for Ovechkin, and the Rangers will make every effort to make sure he disappears from the ice when Ovechkin hops over the boards.

Dennis Maruk Sucks!

This is Game 7. This is what being a sports fan is all about.

All day long I’ve been thinking of Pat Hickey, Eddie Johnstone, how much I hate the Philadelphia Flyers, going to Rangers games with my dad when I was a little kid, having our car towed on Rod Gilbert Night, thinking of Super John Mooney watching the game in his boxers, POTVIN BEATS HIS WIFE!, 1994, Patrice Mooney getting score updates as he covers tonight’s Mets – Cubs tilt, how Brian Leetch had a smoking hot girlfriend at Boston College, and knowing the Rangers will win tonight.

The Rangers have to win. Right?

The Real March Madness

Standard

March Madness has commenced and billions of dollars will be bet on a group of “student-athletes”, who are predominantly between the ages of 18 and 23, and we will fixate on these young men with a fever and a hunger that can only be matched in intensity by elderly men and women looking to make a score at the local parish’s Bingo Night.

Bingo ain’t for pussies, and I’m not frontin’ when I say those Bingo ladies wield a Sharpie like it’s a MCI Cedar Junction shiv.

But the real gangster is the guy sitting next to you at the bar. Frankly, watching the NCAA Tournament at home is as much fun as deciding to make St. Patrick’s Day a family event. Observing the indescribable mess of St. Patrick’s Day drunks is the true essence of St. Patrick’s Day, and let’s not allow some Family Research Council wannabes to ruin the day by taking away from anyone a reckless amount of Jameson or Guinness. So, go to a bar and watch the Tourney. Give up your remote for the day, walk away from your flat screen, and take a walk on the wild side to a suburban watering hole that attempts to ineptly impersonate an urban drinking oasis.

That guy sitting next to you at the bar with a Bud Light, a cell phone situated perfectly atop his tabloid newspaper and bearing no outward sign of allegiance to any March Madness school is the guy you want to sit near. That is a straight-up old school bettor, who will stay all night long for the action and could give a shit what your office pool bracket looks like. Let me emphasize the newspaper has to be a tabloid paper; such as the New York Daily News, the New York Post or the Boston Herald, because old school G’s like to read the initial betting line from these august newspapers.

The phone is probably not a smart phone. It’s old school. It could even be a flip phone, and this guy uses his phone to connect with his illegal bookie and not some online presence in the Cayman Islands. His phone is used to facilitate a bet – not to Tweet or Facebook. His bet is placed with a person, who he will banter with about the day’s action, and not a Caribbean offshore LLC. Our Old School G prefers the one-to-one interaction with a live customer service agent and not the online anonymity of an electronic transaction.

Old School G

Sit near this guy. Don’t sit next to the three guys wearing poorly fitting Dockers and ordering drafts of Blue Moon, who have their office pool brackets splayed before them on the bar, and are conversing about the chances of a #12 seed beating a #5 seed in this year’s seemingly chalk heavy tourney.

Hone in on the guy who is sweating out the finish of #16 seed Lafayette versus #1 seed Villanova. Villanova is favored by 22.5 points, but the Leopards of Lafayette aren’t going to be intimidated by Jay Wright’s Main Line squad. Try to decipher where he placed his money. His face will be inscrutable, a sphinx-like presence at the bar, and only slight facial tics may provide an indication on what team will either add to or reduce his pile of tourney betting cash.

Watch the way our Old School G orders his drinks. He’ll know the bartender. He will know other patrons sitting around him, who will each possess an intimate and arcane knowledge of past point spreads for NCAA Tournament games. The Old School G will work a less than glamorous job – perhaps a cook at a nursing home – but his obsession with where the spread is moving will be complete.

This is the real tournament within the tournament. Hardcore bettors mock your office pool. There is too much luck and not enough skill in that particular endeavor. And when Gloria from Accounts Payable wins your office pool, because her grandson helped her with her picks; and he just happens to be studying Quantum Physics at M.I.T., where his fraternity has built an NCAA Tournament simulator to increase their odds of winning random office pools, our Old School G will laugh at that often repeated tale of a basketball ingenue capturing the cash.

So, go to the bar. You know, the one where they don’t have kiddie meals and they don’t serve Cupcake chardonnay and enjoy the tournament.

Snow Me

Standard

This winter has forced me to confront a disturbing reality that has caused my delicate psyche a crushing blow: Winter in Boston Sucks!

Boston Strong has taken a beating from the unrelenting perseverance of Mother Nature, who is engaged in a vulgar display of vanity: the chance to establish a personal record for snowfall. Boston is inches away from achieving an infamous honor that has inflicted pain, Arctic Blast inspired agoraphobia and nerve-racking tests of driving skill manufactured by snow banks that have narrowed already narrow streets.

Simply put, this winter has been the Tough Mudder of winters.

I can personally attest to the punishment absorbed by my body. My hamstrings are constantly sore and my lower back is tighter than the on street parking situation in the North End. Shoveling one prodigious snowfall after another has forced me into a rigorous workout regimen that has forced me to evolve into a squatting, lifting, bend at the knees and not with your back, throw pounds of snow over ten-feet high existing snow mounds and complete all of this with a single shovel.

I am spent. I am a Ronda Rousey MMA opponent. I submit.

I am weak and powerless against this bitch. Every fiber of my being is attuned to the prospect of any and all types of precipitation falling from the haughty skies above New England. I check the weather forecast like a farmer in Iowa. I tend to the driveway as if it was rich soil capable of sprouting a bounteous harvest of asphalt. Salt is a weapon and an ally. Ice, black ice, icicles equal in size to the ivory tusks of an elephant hang with malice from the gutters, and patiently sitting above our heads is a snow-laden roof injected with the performance-enhancing effects of ice.

Israel is worried about Iran with nuclear weapons. I have a fucking shovel, a snow rake and some salt against this beast called Mother Nature. Yes, I have raked snow from the roof – not once – but twice. Raking the snow off the roof has aggravated a shoulder/clavicle injury caused by a feeble attempt to start the snow blower last winter. I yanked the snow blower’s cord and the cord refused to budge, but my shoulder released a searing pain that almost brought me to my knees.

I can’t take it anymore. Shoveling the little bit that fell last night put me into a fugue this morning. I probably didn’t need to shovel the small amount that fell, but my brain and body are on high alert to oppose snow and ice.

Vikings

I have become a Viking warrior. The shovel is my sword and battle axe. My shovel has been awarded a place of honor and respect on the porch. And don’t think of placing your shitty shovel near mine or describe feats of derring-do by your snow blower. You have a guy that plows your driveway – my shovel and I disdain your bourgeois Barcalounger ass.

Okay, the neighbor has used his Bobcat and snow blower to clear out the front of the driveway and sidewalk a few times. My shovel and I do accept help. And we will work for food.

Pumping Iron: Arnold & Franco

If there is a glimmer of light, my upper body could be a stand-in for Franco Columbo’s chiseled frame in Pumping Iron. My traps and pecs have been forged by an icy crucible that would have made weak the members of The Night’s Watch. The abs are another thing, but trust me on the traps and pecs.

 Typing this long my shoulder is rebelling. My back screams for a reputable chiropractor.

The Iceman Cometh.

AFC Divisional Round Playoffs: Baltimore Ravens vs. New England Patriots

Standard

I’m not going to deceive a soul, I enjoy watching the New England Patriots lose, and then I revel in the collective grief of Patriot Nation like a developmentally-challenged contestant on CBS’s Big Brother who was finger-banged by a Bay State priest back in the day.

Big Brother Contestants 

Living in Massachusetts, a person is overwhelmed by Patriot Nation, which didn’t exist until Bill Parcells was hired by James Busch Orthwein. Yes, the Kraft family and Bill Belichick did not establish the New England Patriots as a relevant NFL franchise, but both parties have built on the foundation created by Bill Parcells. Robert Kraft used the great city of Hartford as an impotent pawn, and Bill Belichick invited into the lexicon of the NFL: Spygate.

That all means nothing today, as the Ravens will look to invade Gillette Stadium and leave Patriot Nation silent and miserable.

This is Ray Lewis/Ray Rice vs. Aaron Hernandez. This is Harbaugh vs. Belichick. And it’s the tradition of Johnny U Baltimore professional football vs. the nouveau riche football culture found in Patriot Nation.

The Ravens will try to run the ball and should find success at that. The Patriots should try to run on a stout Ravens defense, and may not find as much success as passing the rock to Gronk and Edelman. And Ravens receiver Steve Smith and Patriots’ All World cornerback Darrelle Revis should engage in an epic grudge match that should rival anything seen in Dana White’s UFC.

The weather shouldn’t be a factor. It will be in the high teens and there is little to no wind. These are perfect weather conditions for a Ravens – Patriots playoff brawl in January.

The Patriots have been anointed a 7-point favorite by the greasy-haired goombahs of Vegas, and with that line, I’ll take the Ravens.

I do like the Pats to win 24-20, which will cause me great personal pain, and will ignite a Saturday Night Masshole celebration where Bud Light will be viewed as Cristal.