Sports fans have long memories, alas. Not that Arsenal fans needed one to remember their team’s self-immolation 11 days earlier against Newcastle. After cutting the Magpies to ribbons in running up a 4-0 lead, Arsenal shat the bed in the second half and let Newcastle score four times in the final 22 minutes, perhaps the worst collapse in Premiership history. And, sadly enough, it turned out that game was the true harbinger of Arsenal’s final destiny, not that stirring victory over Barcelona.

Because Arsenal stunk out the joint against Birmingham in the Carling Cup final on February 27th, struggling against a team that would be relegated before goalkeeper Wojciech Szczesny and centre back Laurent Koscielny effed up in a way that has to be seen to be believed:

The team talked a good game after that ghastly loss, reminding supporters that they were still in the hunt for three major trophies. But who actually believed these Gunners could deliver the goods? It didn’t take long for Arsenal to show they were mere pretenders to the thrones, as they tied Sunderland, West Brom and Blackburn in successive Premiership games (two of them at home), lost to Manchester United in the FA Cup, and got beat 3-1 at the Nou Camp as Barcelona continued its march to be crowned Kings of Europe.

A stirring 1-0 victory over Man U was impossible to savor, thanks to an earlier, horrific 3-3 tie at Tottenham, Arsenal blowing a 2-goal lead just as they had earlier in the year when Spurs came back to win 3-2 at the Emirates. They then limped to the finish line with losses to Stoke and Aston Villa and a tie with Fulham, which meant Arsenal could claim a quad of sorts–they finished fourth in the EPL, and would have to qualify for a Champions League spot.

Unfortunately for Arsenal fans the nightmarish end to the season has continued all summer. Instead of summoning reinforcements to improve the squad, Arsenal might have been weakened more than any other team in the Premiership. It seems that captain Cesc Fabregas’ long flirtation with hometown club Barcelona will finally be consummated, after what seems like eons of speculation.

Losing a player of Fabregas’ talents is a huge blow, but the idea was that Sami Nasri would effortlessly assume Fabregas’ role and that Wenger would use Catalonian loot to, oh, I don’t know, buy himself a central defender with the strength and aggression of a minotaur and a keeper with opposable thumbs. But now it looks like Nasri is leaving as well, to the moneypits of Manchester City. That would push wunderkind Jack Wilshire into the starring role…except that he’s hurt.

Arsenal fans were ticked even before this looming catastrophe came to a head. Desperately needing help at the back, Wenger failed to bring in a central defender. Indeed, Manchester City added Gael Clichy to it’s collection, though one hopes (prays) that Kieran Gibbs is ready to take over full-time at left back. But even with Thomas Vermaelen and Johan Djourou returning from injury it would behoove Arsenal fans to stock up on the Pepto, what with Koscielny and Sebastien Squillaci still among the team’s top defenders. Wenger did bring in Gervinho to hopefully add firepower to the front line, and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, who is both a major talent and also just 17 years old.

So with the season set to begin tomorrow (here’s hoping the riots that forced the cancellation of the Tottenham-Everton game come to a quiet end) the squad is in total flux. Arsenal fancies itself a European titan but their two best players are flitting off to wealthier, sexier teams. They’ll probably take in £60 million but Wenger is known for being tighter with cash than Scrooge McDuck. Can the parsimonious Wenger buy quickly, and wisely, enough to keep Arsenal from imploding? What’s Robin Van Persie thinking right now? Or Wilshire/Ramsey/Walcott? Or any other top player over the age of 20 who wants to play Champions League football and rack up trophies?

Arsenal plays beautiful football, second only to Barcelona. But last year they were a hard team to root for. The stupefying collapses against Spurs and Newcastle. The idiotic red cards earned by Abou Diaby against Newcastle and Van Persie against Barcelona (I mean the first one for complaining, not the second one which was a joke). Emmanuel Eboye’s inexplicable penalty box takedown with seconds left against Liverpool that cost the Gunners two points. Arshavin’s maddening inconsistency–superhero one minute, invisible man the next three games. And then there’s Nicklas Bendtner, with his pink boots and insufferable preening and blinkered belief that he’s a taller and more lethal Lionel Messi. Bendtner had a golden chance to send Arsenal through against Barça in the Champions League–here’s what he did with it:

barcbench767 by arsenalist

It looks as though Bendtner will also be gone sooner than later, perhaps a case of addition by subtraction. But with the transfer window closing August 31st there isn’t much time for Wenger to buy quality reinforcements, and integrating new signings into the club during the season doesn’t bode well for Arsenal’s chances. Hey, I think Phil Jagielka would be a nice addition. But a pedestrian signing like that wouldn’t do much to mollify fans watching Fabregas and Nasri sprint away from North London, and Lille isn’t giving up Eden Hazard without at least an exchange of artillery fire.

I heard on a podcast that Arsenal should consider adding Joey Barton, and I can see the logic in that (perhaps the first time “logic” and “Joey Barton” have appeared in such close proximity). Barton is a talented passer and he’s long desired a chance to perform on the biggest stage, so he’d certainly be motivated. Of course Barton possesses a disposition, both on the pitch and off, that could be compared to a Honey Badger at the ragged end of a four-day drunk. Whether Wenger would take on such a potential headache might be an indicator of how desperate he is.

Those players who are actually committed to Arsenal have no time to pout or ponder. Tomorrow’s opener at Newcastle is followed by the first leg of their Champions League qualifier against Udinese. Then they host Liverpool, a team most figure has eclipsed Arsenal this off-season and one that could shove Arsenal out of the top four in the Premiership. The return leg at Udinese follows and then there’s a trip to Old Trafford to take on the defending champions. We could have a very good idea what kind of season Arsenal is going to enjoy (or not) by August 28th.

I’m thrilled that the season’s about to start, but I can’t say I’m looking for much from Arsenal this year. But maybe that’s a blessing in disguise–after so many years of high expectations, perhaps this is the year they overachieve, not under. There’s still a ton of talent on the squad and maybe Wenger can transform Fabregas and Nasri into gold. Or, failing that, silverware.

Temporary insanity among sports fans has been much in the news lately, what with a San Francisco Giants fan named Bryan Stow being beaten into a coma after a Dodgers game in L.A. and then a former Pittsburgh sports anchor named John Steigerwald publishing a moronic piece where he said that the victim of that assault should’ve acted like an adult and not worn a Giants jersey to Dodger Stadium. Steigerwald was justly pilloried for implying that Stow helped instigate that vicious assault, and his point that mature adults shouldn’t wear team jerseys because it makes them look childish didn’t wash with me either. He think sthat folks wear team gear because they think it makes them part of the team; I think fans wear jerseys and wave Terrible Towels and whatnot because it’s another way to show support for the team. What, should fans refrain from cheering and booing? That makes you look a bit childish as well, and it doesn’t really affect the players or the game. I find the logic flawed, and if you ever read Steigerwald’s blog (not even gonna link to it) you’d find all kinds of flawed logic on display. The guy is a kook.

It’s still interesting to consider how 60,000 people, packed into a small space and wearing “uniforms”, might devolve into an enraged mob if someone wearing enemy colors appears in their midst. Especially when you introduce everyone’s best friend, alcohol, to the party. But I’m still not buying that people wearing team jerseys is responsible for some great uptick of violence in the stands.

I have some anecdotal evidence–I went to the Steelers-Browns playoff game back in 2003 and there was a small group of Browns fans a few rows over. The Browns raced out to a big lead and those fans were VERY vocal about it, but while there was some shouting back and forth and muttered comments about how maybe we should pitch them over the top of the upper deck (that might’ve been me) there was never any physical confrontation, not even close.

I have friends in Baltimore who have gone to several Ravens-Steelers game and while there was some taunting and insults and whatnot, it never came to blows. That wasn’t the case in the 1970s, when some guys my dad worked with used to go to old Memorial Stadium to see the Browns-Steelers games. They returned with stories about all the fracas in the stands, and I remembered thinking that attending a road game was akin to invading a hostile country.

As I tried to find actual statistical evidence to either support or destroy my thesis I came across an article titled “NFL Working to End Fan Violence”. The article talks about how the Patriots dealt with an outbreak of fights during a Monday night game, how the Eagles fans pelted the sidelines with snowballs, and a time when Jets fans built a bonfire in the Meadowlands. Crazy stuff indeed…but the thing is, that article was written in 1990. These aren’t new problems.

And chances are those problems aren’t going away, not so long as 60,000 people get together to watch sporting events. And especially if they keep selling beer at games, as it’s alcohol that’s almost certainly the driving force when it comes to fan violence. It’s likely that sporting venues are better at cutting off visible drunk patrons and ejecting unruly fans before matters spin out of control (though a recent tasering/billyclubbing at PNC Park is getting a lot of local attention).

Tomorrow (today) I’ll be going to Game 2 of the Penguins-Lightning game, and I’ll be wearing my white #71 Malkin jersey. I’ll definitely have a couple of beers before the game, maybe a couple more during. I will be very loud, I will lustily root for my beloved Pens, I will question the existence of a just God every time the Lightning get a power play. I will not be acting in an especially grown-up manner. I also won’t be beating the crap out of any Tampa fans or joining in any mass violence. The line between passionate team support and unhinged assholery is not a fine one.

If, of course, you ignore reality and just go with the ethereal nonsense that rattles around in the brains of idiot sports fans like myself. I am usually a rational, pragmatic person. But when it comes to sports I am practically a voodoo shaman. I won’t wash my jersey after a win, I (usually) don’t drink during games, I ruthlessly analyze almost everything I do during a game to determine if the action will help or hinder my team. While watching my favorite sports teams I quite literally become temporarily insane.

As do millions of other fanatics. I’m cool with my fleeting mental illness, I’ve come to terms with it. I actually enjoy it, as it makes me feel that I actually have some control over the proceedings unfolding on the screen before me. But I’m not so far gone as to know, in my heart of hearts, that I don’t. Last week I had a few beers after halftime when all looked bleak for the Steelers–they won. This week we won’t be watching the game at Mark’s house, as he’s on vacation, so we’re going to a friend’s house where we watched the pens lose the Winter Classic. This seems like a classic karmic mistake…but what if their house is only bad luck for the Penguins? What if it’s only bad luck for regular season games and is in fact holy ground when it comes to truly important contests?

What if, what if, what if. What I do know, in this calm before the storm, is that it doesn’t matter if the Jets are a team of destiny, or if it’s rare for a team to lose 2 conference title games in a row, or that they’re due for a huge win while the Steelers have spoiled us the last 15 years. If you’ll allow me a poker metaphor, just as the cards don’t care who they’re dealt to, the games are contested by the players on the field, not by the ghosts of days gone by. The game will be won by the team who plays the best today, and destiny and karma and predestination has nothing to do with it. Every game is it’s own separate universe, and in a bit we’ll all get to find out what happens.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to put on my Polamalu jersey (unwashed in months), get my Terrible Towel (the one I twirled during that legendary comeback playoff win against the Browns) and pick out a spot by the TV that seems to have the most in-tune vibrations coursing through it.

And then the next day Ben Roethlisberger was accused of sexual assault.

Roethlisberger’s fate has of course been a huge topic of discussion in Pittsburgh and now that the D.A. investigating the case has decided not to charge Roethlisberger the chatter has, if anything, gotten louder. Before the D.A.’s press conference you at least could say “Hey, we don’t know what happened, we have to wait until the facts come out”. Now the facts have come out, or at least the information gathered during the police investigation has come out, and it’s leaves the league, the Pittsburgh Steelers, and Steeler fans in a moral no-man’s land.

Here’s the first part of the problem. Roethlisberger wasn’t charged with a crime. Accused of a crime, but not charged. So, if you’re the league or the team and you want to suspend him for his conduct, what conduct are you suspending him for? He wasn’t charged with a crime. The NFL’s personal conduct policy allows Roger Goodell to suspend players for littering if he pleases, so whatever penalty is handed down will have to come from the league, because if the Steelers try to impose their own discipline the NFL Player’s Association would almost certainly fight it. Sanction a player who hasn’t been charged with a crime? That’s a precedent the union would no doubt fight tooth and nail.

That’s part one. Here’s part two–Roethlisberger was accused of a heinous crime, and there seems to be compelling evidence that he did it. Or, at the very least, he and several of his companions engaged in some utterly loathsome behavior. It’s true that Roethlisberger wasn’t charged, but that’s due in large part to the alleged victim not wanting to pursue the matter. That might have saved Roethlisberger from a criminal charge, but it might not save his career. In the aftermath of the D.A.’s decision not to press charges, we’ve heard a statement from Roethlisberger where he said he was “truly sorry for the disappointment and negative attention I have brought to my family, my teammates and coaches, the Rooneys and the NFL”. OK, fine, you brought disappointment and negative attention. That’s bad. But what exactly did you DO? If I was accused of sexual assault and I was facing serious financial repercussions and the destruction of my reputation, and I didn’t do it, once I was out of legal jeopardy I’d be vigorously defending myself. Instead we had a hangdog and creepy-looking Roethlisberger standing at a podium (alone, no owner or coaches or teammates offering support) mumbling a vague apology.

Yesterday Art Rooney II said that “After imposing an appropriate level of discipline…we intend to allow Ben the opportunity to prove to us he is the teammate and citizen we all believe he is capable of being. And we hope the entire Steelers community will allow Ben the opportunity to prove to them that he deserves their trust and their respect.” Rooney then said, “”I have made it clear to Ben that his conduct in this incident did not live up to our standards. We have made it very clear to Ben that there will be consequences for his actions, and Ben has indicated to us that he is willing to accept those consequences.”

Which leads us full circle–exactly what conduct did not live up to the Steelers’ standards? Roethlisberger was accused of raping a drunk girl in the bathroom of a bar and that doesn’t live up to anybody’s standards. What the hell do the Steelers think happened that night? Does the fact that he wasn’t charged with a crime mean they don’t believe the most serious charges? Has Roethlisberger told the team his version of what happened and they found his story convincing?  The alleged victim said Roethlisberger had sex with her after she said it wasn’t OK. Her friends say two of his “bodyguards” physically prevented them from going to her aid. After they left the club they reported the incident to the first police officer they could find (who apparently wasn’t very sympathetic and today quit his job). What has Roethlisberger told the team that makes them believe his side of the story?

Because if there isn’t another side of the story, then all this talk of discipline and suspensions should be moot. If the allegations against Roethlisberger are even vaguely accurate, the Steelers should cut him. NOW. After the police findings were released a lot of NFL reporters and observers on Twitter were saying that the info was so damning and disgusting that they thought that Roethlisberger’s suspension should be far worse than the two-to-four games that was the general consensus beforehand. But if you believe the info in the police report, then I don’t see how Roethlisberger has a place in the NFL. He certainly shouldn’t have a role with the Pittsburgh Steelers. The team should release him, immediately.

The fact that the Steelers haven’t released him makes me think that the team honestly believes he didn’t commit sexual assault. I would like to think that the Rooney family wouldn’t go to bat for a despicable criminal, even if he is a Super Bowl-winning quarterback. But we still don’t know what happened, we don’t know what Roethlisberger told Goodell and Rooney that makes them feel that stern discipline is warranted yet not an immediate release.

And it leaves Steeler fans in moral limbo. If Roethlisberger remains on the team and returns to the field after the inevitable suspension, are we cheering on a rapist? And while there are no doubt Steeler fans who would forgive Roethlisberger if he shot Sidney Crosby, just about every person I’ve talked to wants the Steelers to either release Roethlisberger or trade him. I don’t know about the ethics of trading a player who might be a sexual predator (I think it’s a wee bit shaky) but people seem disgusted at what he allegedly did and fed up with him in general. Roethlisberger has never been especially popular in Pittsburgh, I think the motorcycle accident was what made people first look at him askance. And then he was accused of sexual assault in Lake Tahoe, though that was a civil suit filed a year after the alleged incident and not a criminal charge. People seemed to believe him when he refuted the allegation and filed a counter-suit, but once again he was in the news for all the wrong reasons. He wasn’t named a team captain until a few years into his career and the fact that he wasn’t named team MVP until last season led to rumors that he’s not well-liked in the locker room. But of course there’s a big difference between being unpopular and being a rapist. Right now all Steeler fans know is that Ben Roethlisberger did something bad, bad enough that he’s going to be suspended by the league and bad enough that it’ll probably cost himself at least a million dollars in lost wages. But not so bad that the Steelers are washing their hands of him. Roethlisberger is a man charged with no crime who is acting like a criminal and being treated like one.

The saddest aspect of this story is that everyone (including me in this post) is focusing on how this incident will affect Ben Roethlisberger and the Pittsburgh Steelers, and not on how it affected the woman who was allegedly the victim of a violent crime. This story is a sordid and all-to-common confluence of sex and money and celebrity where concepts like the truth and justice are given short shrift. It’s ugly, and its stupid that something as trivial as sports should be the focal point of this story. And unless compelling information exonerating Roethlisberger comes out, I’m going to feel ugly and stupid rooting for the Pittsburgh Steelers with him as their quarterback. Until I hear that compelling information, my opinion is that the Steelers should release him.

Anyway, last weekend I went to Penn State to see the game and let us never speak of that again. It rained just about the entire day, I got soaked to the bone, it was about 52 degrees, and I’m now sitting here sneezing and coughing and feeling generally miserable. But this is actually a good thing, as I leave for Aruba on Friday and I typically get a cold down there. If I can get the ooginess out of the way here I’ll be way ahead of the game when I’m working.

Back to Happy Valley. I’ve gone to a couple of games over the last few years and the changes that have taken place since I graduated a billion years ago are stunning. The more so because so much looks exactly the same. I hadn’t been on campus itself for at least a decade and we took some time to walk down memory lane. Mark and I visited Porter Hall, where we lived for two years (and, from the young women using swipe cards to gain admittance, is now co-ed). The tennis courts are now a construction site, the field we played football on has been the home of a massive building for about 15 years. Tell you what, if you wanna feel like time marches on and doesn’t wait for you, visiting your old college campus will give you loads of perspective. I stood in the middle of Pollack Halls, looked around, and without much effort could imagine myself an 18-year-old freshman headed to dinner. Walk 100 yards and the landscape is changed so dramatically that a spaceship landing in the middle of the road would’ve been less jarring. There’s been so much construction up there, both on and off campus, that the Penn State I went too seems quaint and backward. Heck, even Beaver Stadium has grown by more than an quarter since I graduated.

The big reason I wanted to walk around campus was to complete a pilgrimage to Carnegie Building, which is where the student newspaper, the Daily Collegian, was housed when I wrote there. This was where my career in journalism was born…and then died, about two years later. I wrote a lot of good stuff for the Collegian, stuff I’m still proud of. And I loved working there, loved it to death. Why did I quit, you ask? Well, a number of reasons, not as many reasons as why I haven’t been writing here, but it’s a long silly story and not worth retelling. Believe it or not I had a personality conflict with someone on staff and for those of you who know me and my easy-going ways that should give you an idea about the personality I was conflicting with. So I decided to leave and try some other things, like occasionally attending class. Wasn’t all that successful at that, to be honest.

The Collegian moved out of Carnegie just after I quit, and when I visited the new offices it just wasn’t the same. They were clean. Well, clean-ish. The old newsroom was split in two, there was the old, huge room with our mailboxes and the Sports Desk and the huge table where the copy editors sat (and where the business side was also located), and then the room around the corner that was brightly-lit and had windows looking out on campus and about 15 workstations. I wish I could say I had pictures to show you but the goddam doors were locked and I couldn’t get it. I think I might’ve been able to go around to the side and get in that way, but it was four hours to kickoff, we wanted to drink, and it looked like it was gonna rain. Which it did, about fifteen seconds later. Anyway, here is the imposing facade of Carnegie Building, which looks almost exactly the same today as it did 20 years ago:

The high points of the trip were both culinary. We made another pilgrimage of sorts to the Lion’s Den, where we enjoyed many a wing and a pitcher in school. Ordered some wings and they were fantastic, top-notch. I also had an exquisitely-seasoned cheeseburger that was served on some sort of artisanal bread and was freakin’ fabulous. I’m not saying fabulous for a divey college bar, I mean it was flat-out awesome. We also got subs from McLanahans, the we-have-everything store on College Ave, and they were just as cheap and delicious as once upon a time. I got the turkey sub with the hot pepper relish, and while the turkey was perhaps a bit dry (maybe I should’ve had it moistened with a bit of oil) it was also pretty fantastic, almost exactly as I remembered it. And for a bit more than three bucks for an 8-inch sub, a ridiculous bargain.

I’ll definitely get up there again sometime soon, maybe have more time to walk around and take pictures without risking hypothermia. Then again I remember it being rainy and cold and gray about 95% of the time up there, so I may have to roll the dice and suck it up. An umbrella might be a wise purchase at some point.

No, the question I have is how did Dick Whitman, who in every flashback was an unsure, frightened, passive man, turn into Don Draper, Master of the Universe? Taking a man’s name is one thing, but it’s much harder to playact another whole personality. And even harder to fake extraordinary talent. That’s what I was thinking about last night–Dick Whitman took on Don Draper’s identity, but the creative talent, the salesmanship, the will…that springs from somewhere. How did the soldier who pissed his pants in Korea morph into the creative director at Sterling Cooper?

We know a little bit about Don Draper’s resume–he sold used cars (and was apparently successful) and wrote copy for a fur company (he talked about that before he made that extraordinary Kodak Carousel presentation). But there’s still some pretty big gaps in his history, and perhaps that will be explored in future episodes. While I was musing on this extremely important question I engaged the Google and came across Alan Sepinwall’s interview with Jon Hamm. If you haven’t read Sepinwall’s episode recaps of The Wire or The Sopranos block out eight hours or so and dig in. Fantastic stuff. Anyway, he asked about the Whitman/Draper character and Hamm said, “When Don’s in trouble, Dick runs”.

And that’s true, especially when it comes to having his identity revealed. When he’s escorting “Dick Whitman’s” body back from Korea he hides on the train, which is understandable because then his family would see that, like, he’s still alive. But his brother Adam sees him and never stops believing his brother is alive…right up to the point where they meet again in New York. And Don responds to this happy reunion by trying to shoo Adam off with hush money. Adam commits suicide, so no need for Don to worry about exposure from him, but Adam mails a package that’s intercepted by Pete Campbell. And after Pete tries to blackmail Don he rushes to Rachel Menken asking her to run away with him. Who wants nothing to do with it and tells Don that he’s a coward. Which he is.

That of course led to the famous showdown with Pete in Bert Cooper’s office, where Cooper, after hearing Pete’s story, utters the immortal line, “Mr. Campbell…who cares?” Which leads to another thought–who really would care if Don Draper’s past was revealed? Maybe it would damage him professionally, but talent tends to win out against petty considerations like pathological lying. Maybe it would end his marriage, but that nearly happened in Season 2 anyway and doesn’t it seem probable that Betty would forgive hiding Dick Whitman from her over excusing Don’s serial infidelities?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, hence I watch the show. I’m also now going to sit down and read through Sepinwall’s episode recounts of Mad Men, which I think will be just a bit more interesting, insightful, and nuanced than this.

It was nothing of the sort. First of all, the roads around PNC Park were jammed. With people going to the game. “WTF?” I said as I inched my silver steed toward the parking garage, which was the only place I felt confident of getting a space. I was following some (deleted) with Ohio plates who kept choosing the wrong lane and then cutting me off to get back in the proper line. “You scurvy BASTARD!” I shouted as he nosed in front of me at the garage entrance. “Death to you and all your kind!!” I usually don’t get road rage but for some reason my temper was already frayed. The jackass pulled in, I let a car coming from the opposite lane take his turn and pull in…and then two dippy women in an SUV cut me off and pulled in too. There are three things to mention about what happened next:

• I let loose with a towering stream of profanity that would’ve made Artie Lange stand and applaud
• I did so with my driver and passenger windows wide open (sunroof too)
• I did so with a City of Pittsburgh police officer standing on the sidewalk five feet away.

Oh, and did I mention that those sidewalks were crowded, mostly with children? I guess mores have changed because the cop didn’t ticket me for creating a public disturbance. Instead he he frowned and shook his head at me. As if to say, “That was uncalled for. Really.”

My trial wasn’t over once I paid the exhorbitent fee and actually got in the garage–I had to follow those two…women…to the top of the garage because it was nearly filled up. Ten stories and they drove about 3MPH, looking for that great spot that didn’t exist. They make you turn around these cones to create two wide lanes in the garage and the driver had a heck of time steering her tank around them. “DON’T BUY THE GODDAM TRUCK IF YOU CAN’T DRIVE THE GODDAM TRUCK!!” I screamed, pleased that my rage had fallen to a more acceptible temperature. We finally reached the roof, I parked, and ran down ten concrete flights to the street.

Which was swarming with kids. Groups of kids. Groups of kids in brightly-colored T-shirts. OK, school’s out, it figured there would be more children around than a game in September. Still, this seemed…organized. And it was really crowded. I went up to my usual ticket window and the line was 100-deep. I ended up walking all the way around the the left-field entrance and picking up my general-admission ticket there, after a teeth-grinding ten-minute wait.

Once inside the park I wandered back around to the right-field upper deck, a good spot to get some shots of the city. But the day was overcast and gloomy, not great for picture-taking. No matter–I’d drink and eat until my mood (and hopefully the sky) improved! I got a Primanti’s cheesesteak and a Bud and found an unpopulated section to enjoy my lunch. But this was not to be. First of all, my beer had a decidedly cardboardy aftertaste, as if it’d been stored in a paper milk carton instead of a keg. Second, my Primanti’s was the worst I’d ever had. They put the slaw on the bottom, then the fries and meat on top. So the bottom slice of bread was a soggy, gooey mess within seconds. And the tomato they used (which I’d forgotten to tell them to exclude) was a red, runny mess…it looked like bloody snot. It WASN’T, I hasten to add, but when you’re about to eat lunch that isn’t the most appetizing thought to have running through your mind.

I sat in my seat, frowning, sweating (it was humid), and watching Ryan Braun smack a Paul Maholm pitch over the left field wall. I took some meh pictures and decided that I’d try to find a different vantage point behind home plate. Usually when I go to afternoon games I wander around, from the upper deck to the pricier seats below. The park is usually 2/3 empty, and after the 4th inning or so the ushers could care less if you sit down front. They’re happy to have some company, I think.

But that wasn’t the case yesterday. It wasn’t a sellout, far from it, but the good seats were taken. I wandered around the concourse and heard a huge roar and the bang of fireworks. Andrew McCutchen had just hit a home run and I missed it. “Crap!” I said as I watched the replay on the scoreboard, and then I resumed my search for a perch.

About a minute later there was another roar and more fireworks. I raced over and saw Garrett Jones jogging back to the dugout after hitting a home run of his own. “Excrement!” I snarled. The most excitement the Bucs have had in 5 years or so, I’m in the park, and I miss it. I turned on my heel and continued on my way.

Cheers. Fireworks. “Bull-SHIT!!” I screamed and ran to the rail. Ryan Doumit had just hit ANOTHER home run. Three homers in four batters. I shook my fist at the heavens and said, “Are you SHITTING ME??” Doumit actually didn’t cross home plate right away, as the umps ruled that the ball hadn’t cleared the Clemente Wall. Turns out it had, the Bucs challenged and instant replay confirmed, and Doumit finished rounding the bases as I settled into my new seat along the third base line. My mood was darker than the Pirates playoff hopes. It was the third inning, the Bucs were leading 5-2, and I was thinking about leaving. Take me out to the ballgame?

I took a deep breath, a couple of pictures…and then I decided to change seats again. I did this because I was bracketed by about 500 extremely annoying kids. Now, I’m not talking about kids enjoying a day at the ballyard, with cotton candy and Cracker Jacks. I’m talking about kids who were climbing over the empty rows of seats to see who could reach the top of the stadium first. Who were endlessly backtalking the “adults” who were “supervising” them. It was that constant background noise that had me heading to the concession stand for another beer (a Yuengling this time, which also tasted cardboardy) and back to my original seat.

It was about this time that I heard over the PA that this was “Day Campers Day” at PNC Park. Ah, so that explained all the kids wearing matching T-shirts. Today was an outing for all those kids whose parents shunt them off to the backwoods to give their sanity a chance to recover. Let me say this about that–if you send your kids to camp, and you think that your child, with 30 others, is being “chaperoned” by two teenagers who spend most of their time flirting with each other, good luck to you. I saw one coven of hyperactive children who I wouldn’t tackle without the aid of the 82nd Airborne–their shephards were an octogenarian and a girl who looked 14. I crossed myself and fairly jogged back to my original, isolated seat.

The score was 5-2 and Maholm gave up a one-out single. “Let’s see how he blows this lead,” I texted my brother. Maholm duly walked the next two batters and gave up a bases-clearing double to Braun. In fact, here’s a pic of Maholm serving that up:

You’d think this sort of meltdown might get the attention of the manager, but no. With the fans booing (God knows I was) Maholm gave up a two-run dinger that put Milwaukee back in the lead. Pirate manager John Russell finally woke up or put down his knitting or whatever the hell he does during the games and took Maholm out. There was more booing, louder, but no one threw debris on the field or anything that was called for like that.

Someone named “Joel Hanrahan” came in and got the last two outs of the inning. I eased back in my chair and watched the most exciting part of any Bucco game–the pirogi race! Halapeno Hanna (sp, I know) beat out Saurkraut Saul at the end. Wonder how much money changes hands during the pirogi race. Fans gotta have some prop bets to hold their interest.

But then something weird happened–the Pirates rallied to tie the score. And something beyond weird happened–Andy LaRoche had a clutch two-out hit to score a run, and later scored they tying run himself. Perhaps you have to be a Pirate fan to understand, but “Andy LaRoche had a clutch hit” is a sentence almost as strange as “Sasquatch rode a unicorn to Atlantis”. I know, pics or it didn’t happen, so here is a shot of LaRoche (his brother Adam was traded yesterday so there’s no need to use the first name) getting a clean hit:

But after Ramon Vasquez doubled LaRoche in, Russell inexplicably let Hanrahan hit with two outs. Two outs, a man on second, and you let a newly-acquired relief pitcher with an ERA above 7.00 hit for himself. “WTF!!” I screamed. “W.T.F.!! The guy bats twice a year! You have a runner in scoring position!! Pinch-hit, you colossal asshole!!!!” But the Pirate manager, perhaps having a lie-down after the exertion of yanking Maholm three hitters too late, let Hanrahan bat (he did get good wood on the ball, lining out to right). I rubbed my temples for a few seconds and saw that my beer was empty.

And that did it for me. Well, that and the huge group of 8-year-olds sitting one section over who were shrieking, and I do mean shrieking, almost constantly. There was one girl among them, I have to tip my hat, she had a scream that was something out of a nightmare. High-pitched, high-decible, and she could sustain. She would scream and everyone would look at her and laugh, because it was hard to believe such a tiny girl could produce a noise louder and more piercing than an F-18 launching from an aircraft carrier.

Not that I heard her for long. Because I bailed. A 7-7  tie in the eighth inning and I left. I didn’t care who won–I wanted to get out of there. The kids, the heat, the lousy beer. John Russell. I didn’t want to get caught in the post-game traffic and there was one more thing I wanted to see before I headed home.

I used to work on the North Shore and I walked past my old building and felt that familiar nostalgic twang. Hard to believe that I left the company more than three years ago (be fair, the company left me). But I pressed on, past Heinz Field, past the Science Center. I wanted to see the almost-ready Rivers Casino, due to open on August 9th. You might think it odd, considering that I spend about two months out of the year in Las Vegas, that I’d never once seen the casino as it was going up. I literally had no idea what it looked like, how big it is, heck, even it’s precise location. I’ve read about it in the paper, of course, and I started to get a picture of it in my head. When it was first proposed I thought that it would be this little joint, like maybe the size of a Cheesecake Factory or something. Nope. I read about how many slot machines the place would hold and all the restaurants and bars and whatnot and, hey, it’s gonna be a fairly substantial place. This is as close as I could get to it:

A bit narrow but it should give you some idea of the size of the place. It is extremely weird to think that there’s going to be a casino in Pittsburgh. That I can, if I want, drive 20 minutes and be playing video poker in a casino. Very strange. And this is just the start, of course–there’s already been talk of introducing table games here (inevitable) and allowing video poker machines in bars (uhh, that could be bad for me). I think people should be allowed to spend their money as they see fit, but after spending two months in casinos I must confess to feeling a bit uneasy about having one here at home. Maybe that’ll change when I visit on August 9th (I’ll be there as soon as it opens, for professional reasons, of course) but it does seem a bit surreal to see a casino plopped down there.

After satisfying my curiousity I turned on my heel and headed for my car. And off in the distance I heard…fireworks. Lots of fireworks. Turns out that Brandon Moss hit a game-winning walk-off home run in the ninth. The Bucs hit five home runs and I didn’t see four of them. I’m not sure what this says about the Pirates or about me. I’m as insane a sports fan as you’ll find–ask Al and Jen about watching Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals with me. I’m a mean, vicious, uncharitable, gloating bastard, and I’m proud of that. But with the Pirates…ehh. They play 162 games a year, can’t get too excited about any particular one. And the Pirates haven’t played a truly meaningful game since Barry Bonds failed to throw out Sid Bream at home back in 1992. I probably can’t name 20 players on the major-league roster (harder than it sounds with all the trades of late). But I still go to three or four games a year. The team stinks, has stunk for nearly two decades, but people keep coming to the games ’cause the park is gorgeous and it’s nice way to spend a summer day. Next time I gotta pick a game without the campers.

Oh, and last night I hit quads TWICE, booking a $70 win and erasing about 30% of my gambling losses for the trip. Maybe one of these days I’ll actually play some poker. Or, maybe not. So far I’ve worked, uh, 22 out of 22 days. Feel fine, no burnout, getting enough sleep, finally got some meds to beat back my bronchitis. Of course the idea of having an entire day off makes me want to weep with joy, but I don’t see that happening. No biggie. My shattered body and psyche will rest when I get home. Home. Home.

Anyway, about the Cup:

It’s a hockey night in Vegas. Or it WAS a hockey night in Vegas, last night in fact. The NHL Charity Shootout tournament was held yesterday and a number of current and former NHL legends were here in the Amazon Room. I took a bunch of pictures, which was difficult at times because what with the ESPN cameras orbiting the table I had to shoot through the glass that was set up around the table–you do recall me saying that they’d remodeled the Feature Table arena to give it a more appropriate feel:

They also replaced the table’s green felt with a really cool rink motif:

The tournament was conducted shootout-style, with the top 3 players at each table moving on to the final table. A few pics I managed to snag:

Current MVP (and he’ll almost certainly win the award again tonight) Alexander Ovechkin of the Washington Capitals. That white fin pointed at his head was from the lens hood of the film camera, sorry about that, couldn’t angle myself over to get a better shot. Notice please that Ovechkin is wearing an All-Star baseball cap, not a Stanley Cup Champion cap. Have I mentioned before that I’m from Pittsburgh and a borderline-insane Penguins fan?

Montreal Canadiens forward-enforcer Georges Laraque. Laraque played for the Pens the previous two seasons, where he was a huge fan-favorite (literally and figuratively). One of the most feared fighters in the NHL, Laraque isn’t one of those guys who goes out and picks fights. He lets others start the fight…and then he ends it. Oftentimes two guys will agree before a faceoff to duke it out, and after the two agree to drop the gloves Laraque often says, without sarcasm, “Good luck”. Seems like the sort of guy you’d like to have at your table. Maybe at the other end of your table.

Jeremy Roenick, currently with the San Jose Sharks after having played (and played exceedingly well) for about a half-dozen other teams during his illustrious career. He was one of the more crowd-pleasing players during the tournament, and even when he was waiting for the final table to start. We were sitting on Media Row when Roenick sat down with a stack of red and green chips and was playing some young guy heads-up. It didn’t take Roenick long to lose his stack, and then he leapt up and headed back to the stage. It was remarked during the tournament that Roenick looks more like actor James Woods than James Woods does.

NBC hockey analyst (and former Penguin player, coach and announcer) Ed Olczyk. More than any other hockey personality at the event, Olczyk LOOKED like a poker player. He also won a pot playing my favorite hand, the Hammer (otherwise known as Seven-Deuce offsuit).

As the day wore on I started to get a wee bit excited, as I knew the STANLEY CUP would be arriving around 8pm and I was gonna be there when that happened. I knew the Cup was going to be included in the daily bracelet ceremony (which was pushed back from 2pm to eight) and a bit before the appointed hour I got a spot by the stage and stared down anyone who tried to infringe on my territory. Some guy tried to engage me in idiotic conversation (about how he should’ve won two bracelets already like J.C. Tran but in 2007 his aces got blah blah blah) but I looked at him in such a way that he quickly ended the conversation and scurried away with his head still on his shoulders.

And then the side door behind the stage opened and…there was the Stanley Cup, carried in by a gentleman wearing clean white gloves and escorted by a phalanx of security, Harrah’s execs, and excited gawkers. I held my ground by the stage as people saw the Cup carried up on stage and pressed close, and I squeezed off a few shots of the Holy Grail itself:

It was smaller than I expected, more nicked-up, not as shiny, and the bowl at the top was dented in a few places. And, sigh, it was more beautiful than I dreamed. Jeffrey Pollack took the microphone and told the crowd that the NHL had come to the WSOP for the day, and that included the greatest trophy (yes, he said even greater than the WSOP bracelet) in the world, the Stanley Cup.

Pollack introduced the three bracelet winners from the day before–Leo Wolpert, James Van Alstyne, and J.C. Tran, and the crowd stood as the Star-Spangled Banner was played for the three new champions:

After that Pollack introduced Gary Bettman, the NHL Commissioner (and Pollack’s brother), who returned the throngs to action by announcing “shuffle up and deal!”. And then the two Commissioners posed for a few pics with the Cup:

It’s been something of a running joke among my friends on Media Row that I’d need to be kept on a leash when the Cup arrived. I may have made some idle comments about grabbing the Cup and making a break for the door (and probably getting Tasered within five steps). During the bracelet ceremony I was about 5 feet from the Cup–all I had to do was step forward, reach out, and touch it. That’s all I wanted to do–touch the Cup. Maybe get my picture taken with it.

As the ceremony ended a guy in a Steelers sweatshirt squeezed forward to get a better look, apologizing for his shouldering by saying, “I’m from Pittsburgh, I gotta get a closer look!”. I said I was from Pittsburgh too and we did the fist-bump to celebrate the Pens victory. As the crowd started to disperse he took that step forward, reached out, and touched the Cup, as his friends snapped pictures.

The reaction wasn’t as extreme as I feared, but there was a reaction. Security moved forward, a Harrah’s person told him to knock it off, another barked an order and the man with the gloves whisked the Cup off the stage. My fellow ‘Burgher apologized and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but I HAD to touch the Cup!” That seemed to satisfy the guards, they didn’t hustle him out of the room, so maybe I could’ve gotten away with putting my fingertips on the Cup. Or, maybe I would’ve lost my media badge. It wasn’t worth the risk.

They brought the Cup onto the Final Table stage and set it on a table near where the bracelet display usually is. A few WSOP employees had their pictures taken with the Cup, but they weren’t letting just anybody (or, just anybody like me) in for a snapshot. I guess I understand–let someone like me say cheese while standing by the Cup and EVERYBODY would want to get a picture. Madness, chaos, the end of civilization would ensue.

So I just there with the other media types for a bit and just…looked at it. Funny, had the Penguins lost Game 7 the sight of the Cup would’ve made me want to barf. Instead I sighed like a lovesick teenager. I wonder if players who win WSOP bracelets feel the same way when they get their hands on it. I wonder if players who come second and don’t have a bracelet look at it and feel nauseous. And I wonder how long those feelings last. For me, I looked at the Cup from afar for about fifteen minutes, and then I remembered I hadn’t eaten in about 10 hours. It was enough to see it, take pictures of it, bask in its presence. Eventually the Stanley Cup will return home to Pittsburgh, and so will I. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to that glittering silver chalice, and headed for home.

ESPN is filming the event, they have their big cameras here and they added hockey accouterments to the final table arena. To wit:

Yes, those are boards, glass, etc. The table itself is really cool, they replaced the green felt with “ice” and added the bluelines, faceoff circles, the works:

The tournament is going on right now, they’re playing three shootout tables (the top three from each starting table ends up at the final table tonight) and the guy I’m rooting for right now is Georges Laraque, the former Penguin tough guy who was such a fan favorite. I fondly remember rooting him on many a time as he made a shambles of some silly opponent’s face.

Alexander Ovechkin will be playing at some point today (I’ll stay classy and won’t run him), Roberto Luongo is there right now, Pat LaFontaine got knocked out, as did Mike Richards. I’ve been told that there will be a Penguin playing today (Max Talbot?) and maybe that’s when the Cup will arrive. That would make sense, bring it later in the day when the room is filled and there’s more energy in the place. But at some point I’ll get to see the cup. Maybe touch the Cup. Maybe add my name to Stanley Cup lore–I’ll be the insane guy in Vegas who grabbed the Cup and made a break for it and got Tasered after five steps. Aw man, that’d be AWESOME!!!

After Talbot scored I texted my brother “MAX TALBOT ONLY SCORES BIG GOALS!” and then when Talbot scored AGAIN I texted “Um…MAX TALBOT ONLY SCORES BIG GOALS!!!!” When the Wings scored on that fluttering shot I got that burbling “Oh, shit” feeling in my stomach, but when Kronwell rang that shot off the crossbar I felt like we were destined to win. It seemed like we were down to 31.6 seconds, then 17.4, then 6.5. Of course we lost the faceoff, Fleury stopped Zetterberg’s shot and then threw his body across the crease to stuff Lidstrom’s last-gasp wrister. And then the game was over, the Pens threw off their gloves and jumped on top of Fleury, and I jumped up and threw my arms in the air and screamed like a maniac. And nearly passed out as all the blood rushed from my head. That would’ve been embarassing.

Wish I’d been home for the game but at least I got to see it. The bar cleared out a lot after the game ended and Change100 and F-Train stopped up for a drink while I answered texts from a half-dozen people and savored each sip of my Sierra Nevadas. About an hour after the game my brother texted me saying, “I’m not even happy right now, just relieved”. I know how he felt. If Lidstrom’s shot had gone it, had we lost in overtime, I can’t imagine how horrible I’d feel. But Fleury made the save, the game ended, the Cup was ours.

And how appropriate it is that Max Talbot was the hero, as I of course briefly met him two years ago at the World Series of Poker and got a few pics of him. “I suck at poker,” he told me then. Maybe, but he scores BIG GOALS.

Jeffrey Pollack, the commissioner of the World Series of Poker, is the half-brother of NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman. The NHL Awards ceremony is June 18th at the Palms (right across the street from the Rio) and Pollack twittered that the Stanley Cup may make an appearance at the World Series. If it does, you can bet that I’m gonna do everything I can to get pictures and just bask in it’s silvery brilliance. Is it bad luck to touch the Cup? Some people say that it is, but I thought that was limited to players who hadn’t won it yet. ‘Cause if I get close enough to touch it, I’m touchin’.

When the playoffs started I was in Argentina. When they ended I was in Vegas. Both a long way from Pittsburgh. It was a long ride in more ways than one. Pens won the Stanley Cup. Unreal.