Dee and Deron, Together Again

Folks, I have a new second-favorite basketball team (sorry, Timberwolves, it was fun while it lasted). The Utah Jazz have shot up on the coolometer the past couple of years, culminating in the selection of Dee Brown in Wednesday's draft. Dee joins fellow Illini Deron Williams to create the best college basketball team in the NBA.

Dee and Deron will attempt to recreate their 2004-2005 magic, when they led Illinois to a number one ranking, made the NCAA finals and had Dee named National Player of the Year by the Sporting News. They'll be recreating the Illini dynasty out in the land of Mormons, white people, and--uh--Jazz, I guess. Unfortunately, they'll be doing it despite probably never being on the floor at the same time.

You see, for three years Deron played point guard and Dee was a shooting guard at Illinois. But when Deron entered the draft after their Final Four run, Dee knew he had to prove he could run an offense if he wanted to get drafted to the pros. So, after being pushed out of his natural position for three years by Deron Williams, Dee devoted himself rigorously to passing, moving the ball, and demonstrating that he could play the point in the NBA--where he will be promptly be pushed out of position again by Deron Williams.

Except this time, Dee won't be able to play shooting guard. He's just too small to guard the Kobe Bryants of the NBA, and he certainly won't be able to shoot over them. No, he's going to have to spell Deron off the bench if he wants to make the team. But I think he has a lot of potential as a sparkplug off the bench, the sort of guy that is loved by the crowd, who all want him to start because they don't realize that he isn't really that good. He'll come in for 5 minutes at a time, run like crazy, make two steals and an open three, then go sit down again before somebody realizes "Hey, this dude is only 5'9"--we could step on him." He'll be like Anderson Varejao, except 18 inches shorter. Guys will be pimpin' his headband, his throwback Illini jersey will be all the rage, and the ladies will wave "Marry me, Dee!" signs.

Yes, even in Utah.

Because the ladies have always loved Dee. Since he's just been drafted, is looking to make the Jazz, and is still beloved in Champaign, his notoriety will probably never be higher than right now--making this the perfect time to tell my favorite Dee Brown story, about one of the greatest pickup lines ever.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine (I would say former friend, since I haven't talked to her in 18 months, but Facebook says we still like each other) lived in the same apartment complex as Dee. They ran into each other on occasion, hung out a few times, and I think he even had her cell phone number. She says he was a great guy, very friendly and fun to be around. She couldn't speak highly enough of him.

So it came as a great surprise to her late one night when a very drunk, very naked Dee Brown walked through her front door and right into her kitchen. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"What?" he asked. "You know you want it."

She informed him (and I'll never know why) that no, she didn't want it, and he turned and left amiably enough. She said he seemed genuinely surprised. But this was during the Illini's magical Final Four season, when Dee was probably the biggest celebrity in the state (sorry, George Ryan, racketeering only gets you so far), so I'm certain he found somebody else that night that did "want it." I have no idea how many girls that line got him that year, but it was probably more than I spoke to.

So now Dee takes his smooth moves to Salt Lake City, where Deron won't be his only incredibly cool teammate. Joining them is Andrei Kililenko, whose wife lets him sleep with one groupie a year. Can you imagine the team going out on the town? Dee walking around naked telling girls they want it, Andrei debating whether this particular chick is worth using his freebie on, and Deron sitting with his incredibly hot girlfriend and wondering why Dee is more popular than him.

In short, these guys are way cooler than Stockton and Malone.

Federer's new look

It's almost a rite of summer at this point. Come late June, the flowers are blossoming, Ozzie Guillen is making a fool of himself, and Roger Federer is humiliating people at Wimbledon.

The Swiss star is so untouchable on the grass that even he seems to have stopped taking the tournament seriously. Faced with a doozy of a first-round match against Richard Gasquet, the young French hope, Federer showed up in an absurd, cream-colored blazer instead of the usual warm-up suit.

Apparently Feds had the top custom-made, and he seemed quite enamored with it. He made quite a show of draping it elegantly over his chair before he began play and putting it back on as soon as the match was over. The Telegraph called it "terribly tongue-in-chic," but I think that might be giving him a little too much credit. I'm not sure if it was a deliberate affront to Wimbledon's all-white dress code (If he can wear cream, what's next? Beige? Taupe?) or just to fashion.
But in the end, Federer could probably have worn his jacket out onto the court and still won. Better yet, he might have tied the arms around his neck to fashion a cape. For all of Gasquet's (deserved) hype, and even despite the defeat he handed Federer last year, he should never have come back out after the match's interminable rain delay. Roger took the first set 6-3 before the downpour and made things look even easier the next day, surrendering just four games in the last two sets.

And this was to a player that was supposed to provide one of Federer's stiffer Wimbledon challenges.

There were, I suppose, some nagging doubts coming in. After Federer lost to Rafael Nadal in the French Open final, a desperate writer searching for a storyline could have questioned his mindset going into Wimbledon. But after this display, I can't envision anything sort of a tank (or a racquet flung by Nicholas Keifer) stopping the champ. I harken back to the days when Pete Sampras would show up deflated and demoralized after a second-round French loss, then breeze through two weeks without losing a set--all while nursing a back injury. There's just that feeling of certainty that would make the whole thing seem bland if Roger wasn't so much fun to watch.

Still, it's almost a shame that Federer is so good, because there are lots of potential storylines here. Rafael Nadal is still looking to take that step from lovable dirtballer (and he is lovable--for all his naked agression, those capris still make me giggle) to somebody that's a factor year-round. Lleyton Hewitt is yearning for that wonderful two-year span when there were no dominant players and he could sneak out a grass-court title. Ivan Ljubicic and James Blake are both climbing the rankings, and nobody knows what to make of Marcos Baghdatis.

And hey, how about this one--if Roger Federer weren't around, we'd all be talking about three-time Wimbledon Champion Andy Roddick.

You might as well throw out those plots, though, because Federer's almost certainly going to win again. Nobody that saw his first-round match could really disagree. For all his grace and skill, Roger just doesn't look comfortable in France (or even in Australia), where he just plays solid defensive tennis with the occasional spectactular winner. But as soon as he sets foot on those lawns, his game turns explosive. That right arm starts whipping through the ball, and angles appear that you thought were impossible. The shots that were just deep groundstrokes at Roland Garros become untouchable. And as Gasquet found out, instead of just chasing after every ball, Federer will track it down and hit it past you.

For all his lack of fashion off the court, Roger certainly compensates with some pretty tennis between the lines.

Let's hope he wears that blazer for the trophy presentation.

So it's all over

Well, that was pitiful.

The U.S. national soccer team decided once again not to show up on Thursday, letting Ghana--Ghana!--walk all over them in a 2-1 loss. The U.S. gives millions in AIDS relief to the tiny African country, but our biggest export is now easy wins and World Cup glory--it seems we'll give them to anybody that's interested. With the upset, Ghana romped into the second round of the tournament in their first-ever appearance, setting the players up for life as millionaires and national heroes--I think they even named their coach President.

But in the U.S., it was just another pathetic display. Even the 1-1 tie that we salvaged with powerhouse Italy last Saturday (to avoid total humiliation) was just another slap in the face from the U.S. team, as if to say "Look, we're perfectly capable of competing. We just don't want to."

Clint Dempsey was the only player that even earned his jersey in Germany, baffling defenders with step-overs and hip fakes, running hard throughout and scoring the team's only real goal. I mocked him before the tournament for his ridiculous rap video and even worse nickname--"Deuce"--but hey, he backed them up. It's a shame he didn't start the first match, and it's an even bigger shame that he was often playing 1-on-11. Landon Donovan left his scything runs and ball-handling skills back in the MLS (Kobi Jones still plays there, right?) and passed up at least one wide-open net. Demarcus Beasley, he of the blazing speed, forgot he could run with the ball and mostly looked lost. And Claudio Reyna, the old vet, the Captain, Uncle Sam, giftwrapped Ghana their first goal and then lay there pitifully clutching his leg--and that was the first time I'd noticed him all Cup. Heck, even stud goalkeeper Casey Keller was beaten easily on more than one occasion.

In all, the U.S. managed just that single score (and one Italian blunder), four shots on goal (two of those hit the post), and an awful 6-2 final tally. But it wasn't so much that they were losing--I half-expected that from an overrated and untested side--but that they didn't seem to care. After the last match the team uniformly blasted the referee, who awarded Ghana a penalty kick on an admittedly dubious call. But how can you complain when you didn't force the opposing keeper to make a single save?

Back in Ghana, nobody cared how they got their goals. There was pandemonium. Their government, flush with exuberance just because they had a chance to go through, proclaimed a national holiday. They shut down their gold mines so they could save enough electricity to power their televisions, because who needs one of the country's largest industries when you've got Brazil coming up next? Everyone just seemed to care so damn much about the outcome.

And then there was the U.S. sideline, where Coach Bruce Arena sort of weakly flopped his forearm at his team, turned his back to the field and walked into the tunnel. He'll go back to whatever he does when there isn't a World Cup going on--fishing, perhaps?--and the nation will go back to not really caring.

In the team's case, maybe they never did.

A referee's weekend

This weekend was all about the referees. The two biggest stories this weekend (unless you like golf or hockey, and I don't cater to 60-year-olds and Canadians) were the U.S. soccer team and game 6 of the NBA Finals---or, more accurately, the guys calling the fouls.

Meet Jorge Larrionda. He's a rather nondescript 38-year-old Uruguayan referee chosen by FIFA to work this year's World Cup. He was chosen four years ago but was then suspended for "irregularities" and forced to miss his sport's biggest event. Later, he presided over a controversial Cup qualifier in which he essentially took a win away from Brazil by disallowing two goals. And now, in his biggest feat, he's managed to make a bunch of Americans emotional about soccer.

Specifically, we want to rip his player-ejecting, handball-missing, goal-disallowing head off. American fans threw things at any officails they could reach, and Deadspin proclaimed that they now understood what drove people to hooliganism. The man reached the pinnacle of his profession (not even his main job, mind you) and promptly vomitted red cards all over it.

Now meet Joey Crawford. He and his crew just refereed (yet another) controversial NBA playoff game. But this one was in the finals, was decided by one point, and ultimately came down to a foul call that was, shall we say, totally nonexistant.

Crawford's performance wasn't as bad as Larrionda's--he didn't eject Dirk Nowtizki for having his shirt untucked, for one thing--but it was another example of how arbitrary these stupid sports are. In any close NBA game (and there sure have been a lot of them this postseason), you can probably find two or three instances where maybe tripping over one's own feet doesn't deserve a foul. Or where that ball probably hit off the offensive guy's shoe before it went out of bounds. Or where, just possibly, Michael Jordan shoved Byron Russell out of the way before he hit his jumper.

Essentially, a few arbitrary referee's decisions decide whether we sit around and flagellate ourselves all night or run outside and joyously flip over some cars. And soccer is even worse: it seems like every single game is decided by one goal, and that one goal either came (or didn't come) on a controversial takedown in the penalty box.

So why do we watch the games, knowing that, as often as not, the schlub with the whistle has all the power (and probably a cool grand riding on the game)? I don't know. Maybe we like the indignation of knowing we got jobbed. Or maybe we like the feeling that our lousy, underachieving team could actually win if the guy in the striped shirt feels like giving them the game.

Of course, not every referee is Jorge Larrionda--sometimes you get that game where Brazil wins 3-1 or Lebron scores 53 and there's no doubt in anybody's mind who deserved to win. But most of the time, we like to watch because even when our boys lose (or tie 1-1, in the U.S.'s case), we can say "Goddammit, they would have won if that Uruguayan fink knew what he was doing!"

...And they would have won, too. Goddammit.

Dirk's rough night

The Miami Heat took game four of the NBA Finals against Dirk Nowitzki and the Mavericks last night in pretty convincing fashion, beating them by 24. I was initially going to write that the Heat "pile-drived" the Mavs, but I realized that was what Jerry Stackhouse tried to do to Shaq.

So what changed in this series? Three days ago--heck, through 7/8 of game three--the Mavs looked unbeatable. They transformed from a splendid basketball juggernaut into the Washington Generals in the span of about 4.5 quarters.

What happened? Is home field advantage really that powerful?

Yep. I blame room service.

You might have noticed that Dirk Nowitzki played like crap last night. You might have also noticed that he shot an Antoine Walkeresque 2-14 from the floor. (This is the kind of statistically-devoted box-score checking that we here at RallyKiller are known for). And if you were paying attention in the days leading up to the game, you probably heard him griping repeatedly, and to several different media outlets, about the late night he had after their game three choke job. Apparently the Miami hotel's service staff wasn't quite up to par.

"Obviously, last night wasn't easy to sleep on. It didn't help that the room service took about three hours," said Dirk, who no doubt ordered a pint of ice cream to wallow in.

Two days after the room service debacle, Dirk had his miserable performance. The Mavs came out a bit awkward and faded down the stretch, scoring just seven points in the fourth quarter. Weary from a late night bereft of Ben & Jerry's? I have no doubt.

The room service man is the real hero of this game. I can picture the bellhop assigned to deliver the food: he's 19 years old, his greasy blonde hair is matted under a jaunty little hat, and he's got a James Posey jersey on underneath his hotel uniform.

NBA players use pseudonyms when they check into hotels, but when our little bellhop sees an order from "Dirk Hasslehoff" (staying next door to "Asonjay Errytay") he knows what he needs to do. His entire tip--nay, his very minimum-wage job--may ride on delivering this food, but that pales in comparison to the Heat. Goddammit, his team's season is on the line.

So our hero plays some Game Boy, takes a nap, and then finally delivers Dirk's food three hours late, interruping him as he miserably watches tape of the German soccer team rallying over Costa Rica (now there's a team that can finish a game). By this point, the seven-foot, bearded Maverick is frustrated, hungry, and certainly in no condition to rebound for game four.

The outcome was already decided.

Oh, and Dirk? There's a "special topping" on the rum raisin.

Okay, so Brazil is good...

Mmm... tastes like capitulation. And sweat.

Just about everyone in the media is giving this World Cup to Brazil already. They're the defending champions, they've got that great quartet up front, yadda yadda. And now even their opponents are giving up.

Reuters reported yesterday that Australia was considering resting four of their starters against Brazil--including two-goal Soccerroo stud Tim Cahill--to make sure they didn't get yellow cards that would force them to miss the next match against Croatia. You see, if (when) Australia loses to Brazil, they would need to win or draw the Croatia match to have a chance of advancing to the second round.

Australian player Craig Moore was refreshingly blunt about it: "Of course, I'd love to play but the Croatia game is going to be our cup final."

I'm not sure I've ever seen a team concede defeat quite this easily. Kobe Bryant might have quit on the Lakers, but at least he played. (hey-oh!)

In the end, the Australians bravely decided to man up and play. Not because they thought they could win, but because they were worried Brazil would beat them so badly it would ruin their goal differential.

Said assistant coach Graham Arnold: "You can't look too far down the track because you can bring yourself undone against a side, especially like Brazil. Goal difference can be a major player when we get to the final game against Croatia..."
I can just picture Arnold in the locker room before the match: "All right, boys, this is the big one! Let's keep it within three! Manage that goal differential! And don't overexert yourself, we've got Croatia next week!"

Interestingly, this is the same Australia team who faced accusations of dirty play from the Japanese, and whose manager (the brilliantly-named Guus Hiddink) got into a shoving match with the Japanese coaching staff.

Hiddink expertly refuted the claims of dirty play.

"We have a good team. They like to fight, but every team must fight in my opinion," he said.

Guess it's easier when you're fighting little Japanese men, eh Guus?

Well, how about those U.S. men, eh? It would be even more painful if I hadn't called it so brilliantly the night before. Looks like it's going to be a quick 3-and-done for us.

But instead of wallowing in my misery, allow me instead a humorous interlude about baseball and my roommate, Salmon. He's a nice guy from Pakistan, and supposedly quite the cricket player. Salmon, though, knows very little about cricket's bastard cousin, baseball, so he and his cricket buddies watched their first Twins game yesterday. It turned out to be a dramatic finish, as Santana and Schilling took a 1-1 pitcher's duel into extra innings. The Sox took the lead in the top of the 12th, but the Twins won it on rookie Jason Kubel's clutch grand slam in the bottom of the inning. Probably one of the best games of the year so far.

And then they bashed poor Kubel with a Gatorade bucket. These celebrations have gone too far.



Anyway, shortly thereafter, Salmon comes home. He walks in to the living room, where my other roommate (Chris) and I have switched to the Mavs/Heat game.

"Did you see the game?!" Salmon asks.

"Yeah, wasn't it amazing?" I reply.

"I know, I can't believe they lost!"

"Uhm... Salmon? They won."

"No, I saw, the Red Sox did!"

I'm sure you can see what happened here. Poor Salmon does not understand how the top and bottoms of innings work, so he left after the Red Sox took the lead, thereby missing the stunning 12th inning rookie walk-off grand slam.

But it actually gets better. When I explain to him that the Twins get another chance to bat, he asks what happened.

"Well, they got three guys on and hit a grand slam!"

"...Is that like a home run?"

"Well yes, but with the bases loaded."

"But didn't they need two runs to win?"

"When the bases are loaded, and you hit a home run, all of the baserunners get to score."

"Oh my goodness!"

And there you have it. My roommate, at his first baseball game ever, missed the climax of what will probably be his best baseball game ever. And he didn't even know what he was missing.

At least he had an excuse. I'm quite certain my dad understood that the Indians still had a chance when he made me leave in the 8th inning of that 1995 game...

Addendum: I swiped that photo from Deadspin, who is hosting it. If there is ever a point where I have double-digit readers, I'll host my own pictures. In the meantime, thank you to all my unwitting hosts. Sorry about that.

Brasil they ain't

ESPN's new ploy for attracting female
viewers--shirts versus skins

The U.S. team debuts at the World Cup tomorrow, at noon EST. That's 11:00 here in Minnesota, so how am I supposed to watch the match? I've been contemplating a two-hour lunch break, and given how little attention anyone pays to me, I could probably make it work.

Still, FIFA needs to show a little more consideration for the soccer-loving American hordes. Seriously, guys. Get on the ball.

This game is especially important because it's almost a must win, not just for this World Cup, but for U.S. soccer in general. I'm nervous about all these ESPN ads proclaiming that the U.S. has their best team ever, that we could shock the world, that Landon Donovan is predicting a championship. They're milking it all they can to get a big audience for this World Cup--they've even got lousy American announcers that don't know what they're talking about, just to appeal to the general public. It's really kind of embarassing.

But the reason I'm worried is that there's real no reason to expect us to even advance out of group play. We've got the Czechs (ranked ahead of us), Italy (should be ranked ahead of us), and Ghana (no slouch). If we lose to the Czechs tomorrow (not unlikely), then we'll probably lose to Italy and bam, we're essentially out of the tournament after two games. National embarassment, all interest in soccer in the U.S. killed--after two games. In fact, given that the U.S. has trouble scoring goals, it's not inconceivable that we could go 0-2-1 in this tournament and rival the patheticness of '94.

So c'mon, ESPN. Don't risk the sporting interest of an entire nation by ridiculously publicizing this team before the matches even start. If the country expects to win, they'll be disappointed if we don't. I mean, don't get me wrong--I like the team a lot, and think there's a decent chance we could shock some people--but wait until we beat somebody to start throwing those championship dreams out there. You're going to get the soccer die-hards (like me) no matter what, and if we start winning the masses will follow. Remember the Women's World Cup in 2000?

Instead of chasing the flag-waving Nascar croud, appeal to the fans you have. Put on the English and Irish announcers that know how the offside rule works. Get Brent Musberger back to the NHL, or wherever he normally hangs out--you could probably pick a random English hooligan out of a pub, facepaint and all, and he would do a better job announcing the games than ol' Brent. Stop trying to bring soccer to the masses, because the masses aren't interested. If the U.S. is as good as you claim it is, the viewers will come on their own.

Oh, and yeah--go U.S.A.

Hello, world

This blog is off the floor. I've got no fancy entrance speeches, not even a flashy logo (someday?), but at least now I've got a little content...