Author: Frank Murtaugh

Frank Murtaugh is the managing editor of Memphis magazine. He's covered sports for the Flyer for two decades. "From My Seat" debuted on the Flyer site in 2002 and "Tiger Blue" in 2009.

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FROM MY SEAT

THE CURSE OF OL’ DIZ

When spring training opened in February, the St. Louis Cardinals had the kind of starting pitching that was the envy of every other team in the National League . . . including the hurling gold standard of the last decade, the Atlanta Braves. Seven St. Louis starters — a nice blend of veterans and youth — were vying for Tony LaRussa’s five-man rotation, the kind of excess rare in this era of expansion-driven pitching

dilution. But then by the end of April, that seven-armed beast had been reduced to a two-armed wounded animal, pushed along by stopgap support from our Triple-A Redbirds. How do you explain the black cloud hovering over the mound at Busch Stadium? You’ve got to go back . . . way back.

We all know about the Boston Red Sox and the Curse of the Bambino. The Bosox traded Babe Ruth to the Yankees in 1919 and haven’t won the World Series since. While the Cardinals have enjoyed far more success than Boston over the last eight decades, the franchise has suffered a history of pitching ills that is straight out of Ripley’s. And it all began at the 1937 All-Star game.

The finest pitcher of the Depression era — Dizzy Dean — was on the hill that day representing the Cardinals and the National League. He was doing fine until a line drive off the bat of Cleveland’s Earl Averill hit him directly on the big toe, breaking the digit and later forcing Ol’ Diz to alter his pitching mechanics . . . which damaged his flame-throwing arm and ended his career all too early. Quite a sacrifice for an exhibition game.

Thirty years later, the legendary Bob Gibson suffered an eerily similar injury, as a line drIve broke one of his legs just below the knee. Considering Gibson was tougher than Gorilla Monsoon on a bad hair day, the St. Louis ace returned to action later that fall and led the Cardinals to a World Series victory . . . over the Red Sox.

It’s been over the last 20 years that this pitching phantom has really haunted St. Louis arms (and other anatomical parts). Danny Cox, an 18-game winner for the 1985 National League champions, broke his foot jumping off a seawall during a spring training fishing excursion. The Cards’ finest pitcher of the Eighties — John Tudor — broke a leg in 1987 bracing an opposing catcher’s fall into the Cardinals’ dugout!

Over the course of the Nineties, several young St. Louis pitchers acquainted themselves more with surgical knives than resin bags. Donovan Osborne was a first-round draft pick who never got anywhere near his projected level of dominance because of one injury after another. Alan Benes broke out with 13 wins in 1996 and was near the top of the National League in strikeouts and ERA a year later when shoulder damage shut him down. He was last seen being released out of spring training by the Chicago Cubs. Ouch.

Which brings us to the current Cardinal pitching crisis. Rick Ankiel — not so long ago, the next Koufax — never left Florida, as elbow trouble was added to his paralyzing control problems. Next to go down was Woody Williams, unable to make it even five innings in his first start of the season (pulled abdominal muscle . . . huh?). Garrett Stephenson’s remarkable recovery from “Tommy John surgery” to repair his damaged right elbow was interruped by back spasms, landing him on the disabled list next to Williams. Poor Andy Benes could no longer get big league hitters out, partly due to a debilitating knee injury, and retired after three starts. Finally, former Redbird Bud Smith — he of no hitter fame last season — was placed on the DL with shoulder pain in late April.

The result of this fallout was a Cardinal rotation with two legitimate big-league arms: Matt Morris (another “Tommy John” survivor) and Darryl Kile. And the trickle-down effect hit the Memphis Redbirds rather hard. Instead of serving as linchpins in the Memphis rotation, Josh Pearce, Travis Smith, and Jason Simontacchi have been forced into duty for the Cardinals well before they are entirely prepared. Which means the youngsters’ development is curtailed, and our Triple-A outfit is not as competitive as it might be.

Just last week, Stephenson and Williams returned to the Cards’ rotation and a degree of normalcy was felt both in St. Louis and Memphis (where the Redbirds welcomed both Smiths back with open arms). There’s a lot of baseball season left to play . . . and a lot of innings left for — cross your fingers here — healthy arms. Somewhere in baseball heaven, Dizzy Dean is wincing.

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Sports Sports Feature

FROM MY SEAT

RACING WITH FRIENDS

I’ve got triathlons on the brain this week. Not to say I’m remotely near the physical fanaticism required to participate in one of these widow-makers. Asking me to swim 2.4 miles would most certainly kill me, as my swimming skills can best be described as those of a person who would otherwise drown immediately were it not for the flailing of limbs that merely postpones the inevitable. I love a nice gentle swim across

the pool . . . only because I’d otherwise wind up at the bottom of said pool. Swimming as competition? Yikes. Add a 112-mile bike ride and — clutch your chest here — a 26.2 mile run (which alone killed the Individual who originally accomplished the feat in delivering a war-time message to Marathon, Greece)? You might as well ask me to leap the Morgan Keegan building in clown shoes.

The 20th annual Memphis in May Triathlon will be held this Sunday, and 1,400 competitors are expected to participate in the event (not quite an Iron Man, the MIM triathlon is the same distance as an Olympic triathlon: .9-mile swim, 24.8-mile bike ride, and 6.2-mile run). I had the pleasure last month of attending the wedding — in Carmel, California, no less — of an old college buddy who prides himself these days on his triathlon achievements. Tamio has already completed — survived? — the Florida Iron Man and shows no indication of backing off this superhuman hobby of his. He goes so far as to claim merely running a marathon doesn’t light his fire, so to speak. Imagine Neil Armstrong asking NASA for permission to continue toward Mars. Been to the moon . . . done that.

In spending time with Tamio — and another dear friend I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade — I began to blur the distinction between the requirements for a triathlon and those for a lifelong friendship. Absolute devotion. Stubborn desire. More than a little flexibility. Versatility. Tirelessness. The ability to stay upright when so many elements say, “Lay down, silly one.”

Taking the allegory a step further, you might view a long friendship as having a similar pattern to a triathlon. Stage One can be a little messy, a lot of kicking, arms akimbo, bumping into one another, gasping for a breath or two, maybe even choking a little now and again. But always with the same destination in mind. You complete this shortest of the three stages, drip dry as you head for Stage Two, ready to eat up some course.

Which is where things get dangerous for good friends. You hit a period where — metaphorical bike underneath — you may feel as though cruise control has been reached. The wind in your face feels good, the scenery passes at a steady rate, your legs are pumping those pedals like a clock in perfect rhythm. Only problem is, you look up and the crowd you started with is no more. New faces, new structure to the wheel-spinning pack. Before you know it, your legs have pumped, your lungs have burned for 112 miles . . . and you’re back on your own.

Stage Three: a marathon to the finish line. In other words, the hard part. The pace slows, muscles begin to ache (if you can feel them anymore), and every breath comes at a premium. While I’ve never been there myself, what I’ve heard from athletes who have stayed on their sneakers for 26.2 miles is that one element takes over all others as you near the end: focus. On the finish line, a favorite memory, a favorite song . . . a best friend. Focus. For your body to remain on target, your mind has to stay alert. It’s at this point where the myriad distractions we allow to cross the path of our daily lives become all too ancillary. And the elements we hold dear again become a part of us.

I should have begun by saying I have friends on the brain this week. Good friends. Who knows how long each of our triathlons will be? I’m not sure precisely which stage of friendship I’ve reached with my college pals, though I’m fairly certain all three of us are pumping through Stage Two. The best part is, thanks to Tamio’s wedding last month, I found my original pack. And I’ll keep pumping.

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FROM MY SEAT

HOOP DREAMING

It’s time to fantasize. We’ll take our lone big-league operation — the Memphis Grizzlies — and brainstorm over a few ways to improve on last season’s 23-59 performance, add some talent around Pau Gasol and Shane Battier, and build toward playoff contention by the time our new arena is completed in 2004.

How about luring Mr. Logo himself, Hall of Famer Jerry West — the sharpest NBA mind of this generation, a guy who radiates class and dignity — from a cushy gig in L.A. right here to the Bluff City? He can run the show, top to bottom. Another NBA club interested in making a deal? Let me transfer you to Mr. Logo. Big-name free agent shopping his skills? Mr. Logo on line one. Instant credibility, league-wide. Instant respect for the Grizzlies, nation-wide.

Huh? This is actually happening? Jerry West a Memphian? Well, let’s keep the fantasy-ball spinning.

Owner Michael Heisley is so elated over getting his guy that he flies to Memphis, calls a meeting with the City Council, County Commission, both mayors, four TV networks — even invites the daily paper — and announces he is footing the bill for the Grizzlies’ new arena. It’s the right thing to do, says Heisley, as it’s his team, after all, and he’ll be reaping the benefits a decade from now when the luxury boxes are full, Gasol is an annual MVP candidate, and Jason Williams — not the one you might think — is electrifying ESPN’s sportscenter throughout the winter. The owner’s only request is that the arena be christened Heisley Fieldhouse. A slice of immortality he will have earned with his wallet.

Which brings us to our next dream sequence. The Grizzlies wind up second in the upcoming draft behind the Golden State Warriors. Golden State takes the plunge and drafts Chinese phenom, Yao Ming, as the Bay Area’s Asian population provides the kind of environment Yao is demanding before he crosses the Pacific. With the second pick, Memphis takes Duke’s Jason Williams, the second year in a row the Grizzlies land a former Blue Devil in the first round, better yet a former national college player of the year. During TNT’s national coverage of the draft, Williams is seen smiling — something the current Jason Williams in Memphis last did in second grade — and boasting that, instead of going to Disney World, he’s “going to Graceland.”

Ego-tremors are felt in greater Los Angeles as Shaquille O’Neal and Kobe Bryant each blame the other for the Lakers’ flame-out in the Western Conference finals against the Dallas Mavericks. Bryant is loud and clear about his wish to get out of L.A., preferably for a team closer to the east coast, where he can turn a franchise into the kind of power that can reach the Finals and backhand Shaq’s Lakers on the way to the title. Kobe calls his old pal, Mr. Logo.

West swings his first blockbuster for Memphis, sending the “old” Jason Williams — along with first-round picks in both 2003 and 2004 — to the Lakers for Bryant. When asked about his West Virginia connection to Williams, West displays his 2000 NBA championship ring and describes it as a tighter connection to Bryant. The day after the deal, sales of Sprite go through the roof throughout the Mid-South.

Mr. Logo makes a call to native Memphian Elliot Perry and offers him a job as an assistant coach in charge of community outreach. With not half of West’s skill as a player, but with every bit the integrity, class, and dignity of Mr. Logo, Perry leaps at the chance to contribute on an NBA level to the city he served so admirably as a high school and college star. While he’ll be involved with Sidney Lowe’s game-day staff, Perry’s primary responsibility will be to make sure every child in the Memphis City School system gets at least one chance each year to see an NBA game or to meet a Grizzly in person. No matter what the crowd at The Pyramid may tell you, no matter what kind of music is blared from the arena’s speakers, basketball is a game for kids. Elliot Perry’s the guy to remind us.

Fantasy you say? No chance? Call Mr. Logo.

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We Recommend We Recommend

MY FRIEND, SPIDEY

Do yourself a favor. Finish reading this column, put the bills and errands aside, grab some family and/or friends, and go see Spider-Man at the nearest megaplex. And let me clarify something here: This is not a movie review. I could no more critique a film about Spider-Man than I could evaluate the strengths and weaknesses (there are no weaknesses) of my 3-year-old daughter. You see, Spidey and I go too far back. And just as I would if, say, an old college roommate were making his big-screen debut, I’m hereby urging you to go spend a couple of hours with the ol’ webhead. If he’s not your friend already well, acquaint yourself.

As a child of the Seventies, I had what amounts to a boyhood trinity of heroes: Roger Staubach (quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys), Paul Stanley (lead singer of KISS), and Spidey. Even Staubach would lose a game every now and then. And it took a couple of years before my parents would allow any KISS records in the house. But Spider-Man? He was always there, month after month after month.

My grandfather bought me my first Spider-Man comic — Amazing Spider-Man #177 — in 1978. I had read plenty of comic books before this epic gift, but I was more of a baseball-card kid at the time. Comics were a nice distraction, but I didn’t have the bug (so to speak) just yet. In that issue, Spidey took on his archenemy, the Green Goblin (whose secret identity turned out to be a huge surprise an imitation Goblin, if you can believe that).

I lost my grandfather in 1979 but kept finding my way to local comic outlets for the next 20 years. Why the love affair with Spider-Man? Let me count the ways.

Were it not for his being bitten by a radioactive spider in a high school lab, Peter Parker might as well be you or me. School problems, girl problems, peer problems. No leaping over a building in a single bound for young Parker. No Batmobile to tool around in. Then along came a spider.

Before there was Spider-Man as we know and love him, he was a circus act. A mercenary. Peter simply wanted to cash in on his newfound powers to the highest bidder. It wasn’t until he ignored a chance to stop a burglar — who, as fate would have it, later murdered his uncle Ben — that Peter realized his mantra: with great power comes great responsibility. Has there ever been a cornier superhero slogan? And, I ask you, has there ever been such a slogan more worthy of our attention?

The meaning of hero was redefined for us on September 11, 2001. Spider-Man — to say nothing of Roger Staubach or Paul Stanley — isn’t in the same league as those firemen and police officers who stormed up a pair of skyscrapers they knew were coming down. Since that horrible day, it’s the men and women fighting to end the horrors of terrorism who have come to embody modern heroism.

But you know what? Spider-Man would have been there to help. As irrational as it may sound now — and, admittedly, it’s a child’s fantasy invading an adult’s mind — I wished for there to be a real Spider-Man as the twin towers and Pentagon burned. I wished for reality to take a backseat temporarily long enough for good to once again stiff-arm evil.

To date, my collection of Amazing Spider-Man comics numbers almost 400. I quit collecting the current issues in 1998 when the powers-that-be at Marvel Comics made the god-awful decision of essentially starting over, with the second volume of Spidey’s story to be told in a more modern context. (Talk about reinventing the wheel.) I’ve been left with the task of going back in time, working my collection downward, the price of an issue going up as the number on the cover gets smaller. (I’m at #53, a treasure from October 1967.)

As I go back with Spidey — and get older every day — I realize all the more how great my hero’s powers really are. The power to escape, not so much in body but in mind. If you ask me, the perfect hero for the silver screen. As this long-awaited motion picture finally arrives, I am disappointed in one regard. Columbia should have cast me as Peter Parker.

There’s always the sequel.

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FROM MY SEAT

MOODY BLUES (AND GRAYS)

That most celebrated of Memphis months is almost upon us. May happens to be among my favorite sports months of the year, as baseball season hits its stride while the NBA and NHL playoffs separate the contenders from the pretenders. A fun time to read the sports page. But try as I might, I can’t shake the blues over the University of Memphis basketball program. To take the next logical step in this colorized analogy, you might say skies over The Pyramid have grown considerably gray.

When Dajuan Wagner announced on April 17th that he would take his skills to the pros, declaring his eligibility for the NBA draft after a single year of college ball, no one should have been surprised. The surprise may well have been that he didn’t announce such a decision a year ago. Tiger fans have to feel that one year with Juanny was better than none. No way do the Tigers win the NIT title without Wagner’s scoring punch. And hey, he established a new single-season scoring record at the U of M. Disappointing as it may be that Tiger Nation can’t enjoy Wagner another season (or three), his time here won’t be forgotten.

But what of that fateful date’s second roundball announcement, that sophomore Scooter McFadgon was leaving as well, a transfer to — say it ain’t so! — the University of Tennessee? While Wagner was a longshot to ever wear blue and gray, McFadgon might as well be a poster boy for future U of M varsity candidates. Born and raised here, a prep star at Raleigh-Egypt, a sweet-shooting, versatile player with plenty to offer at both ends of the floor. McFadgon had two solid if not spectacular seasons under his belt, having averaged just under 10 points a game and hitting several clutch shots, particularly during his freshman year of 2000-01. Transferring to Tennessee? Something doesn’t compute here.

Since Wagner first stepped on campus, head coach John Calipari has all but endorsed the precocious star’s leap into NBA life, even when Dajuan seemed to be actually leaning toward another year in Memphis. One is Left to assume Coach Cal was covering bases here, making what might be considered bad news appear to be part of a plan, a necessary step back for the program Calipari aims to take several steps forward. Dajuan Wagner, if nothing else, was an investment in the program’s Q rating.

But then what of Scooter? By all appearances, McFadgon was — simply put — a good kid. He wasn’t flashy on the court, which means he didn’t showboat when things went well and didn’t visibly drag when fortunes turned sour. He has stated publicly that his decision to leave Memphis is not related to basketball, that he needs a change of scenery. And one would have to believe him on this matter. If he had a problem being a second or third option behind Wagner and/or Kelly Wise . . . well, that problem’s gone. McFadgon would likely have been the first option with a game on the line next season. So what could be so miserable for him to choose to transfer, meaning he won’t play another Division I game until November 2003?

The answer to that question may have more to do with the long-term success of Tiger basketball — and the future of John Calipari — than any Wagner fallout. Did Scooter simply run out of time on Cal’s watch of player development? Was there a personality conflict?

The guess here is that, whether either party will admit it, Scooter McFadgon — originally recruited by Tic Price, remember — is not a John Calipari-style basketball player. Similar to fellow transfers Courtney Trask and Paris London, McFadgon’s demeanor leans toward reserved. He’s not animated, in body or spirit. And while he’ll contribute to winning basketball in several areas, he’s not capable of taking over stretches, as Wise and Wagner so often did.

The 2002-03 Tiger basketball team is going to be hard to recognize and a longshot, at best, for the NCAA tournament. With four of seven rotation players gone — forward Chris Massie announced he was leaving on April 22nd — Calipari’s task will be essentially the same as it was two years ago: building a team from the ground up. Hopefully the addition of Vanderbilt transfer Billy Richmond will alleviate some of the pressure on returnees Earl Barron, Antonio Burks, and Anthony Rice. Maybe Wagner’s old running mate, Arthur Barclay, can contribute some muscle and effort. But as the roster continues to take on the personality of its helmsman, continues to become the team John Calipari wants to coach and likes to coach, another question is dangling out there. Is it a team Tiger fans will want to watch?

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FROM MY SEAT

HATFIELDS AND MCCOYS

It’s rivalry time. Memphis vs. Austin for the 2001-02 Central Hockey League championship, the President’s Cup. Game Three coming up Thursday night at the DeSoto Civic Center (the best-of seven series is tied at one game apiece after Austin’s victory Sunday night). What? You didn’t realize we had a rivalry with this city a mere 650 miles west of the Mighty Miss? Read on.

These cities know how to name their teams. RiverKings is a hybrid nickname based on two of the Bluff City’s most identifiable charms. Ice Bats is a hybrid nickname based on an essential element of hockey and the winged creatures that apparently fly out from under Austin’s Congress Bridge every night, a million strong (yikes!).

Austin is the capital of Texas, a state larger than most nations and far too much territory for any single municipality to reasonably expect to govern (see Odessa). Memphis is the “capital” of the Mid-South, a region made up of western Tennessee, eastern Arkansas, and northern Mississippi. Far too much territory for any single municipality to reasonably expect to govern (see West Memphis).

Austin has the Scholz Beer Garden, described at digitalcity.com as “the place where politicos go to make deals and hash out compromises.” Memphis has Harold Ford Sr.’s living room.

Within driving distance of Austin is Georgetown, Round Rock, and Pflugerville. (Does someone from Pflugerville call himself a Pfluger or a Pflugerite? Or perhaps . . . a Texan?) Within driving distance of Memphis is Germantown, Little Rock, and Collierville. (Someone from Collierville will let you call him whatever you want, as long as it’s not Memphian.)

Austin was once home to Stevie Ray Vaughan, the legendary blues guitarist taken from us far too early in a 1990 helicopter crash. Memphis was once home to Elivis Presley. Let’s forget how we lost the King and remember there would have never been a Stevie Ray without him.

Austin has a legendary hotel, the Driskill. Memphis has a legendary hotel, the Peabody. The Driskill doesn’t have ducks.

Home to Dell and Motorola, Austin is referred to in some circles as “the Silicon Prairie.” Home to edEx and AutoZone, Memphis is referred to in

Some circles as “America’s Distribution Center.” What these monikers do for a rivalry, I have no idea.

Each March, Austin hosts South by Southwest, a festival of music and movies that draws thousands. Each May, Memphis hosts Memphis in May, which includes a music festival, a food festival, and the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest. Edge to Tom Lee Park.

Austin’s finest barbecue can be found at the Salt Lick or Earl Campbell’s. Memphis’ finest barbecue can be found at the Rendezvous or Corky’s. For the sake of nostalgia, we’ll give the edge here to the 1977 Heisman Trophy winner.

Downtown Austin’s 6th Street is a music-lover’s paradise, with club after club offering the best in live blues, jazz, and rock. There’s a popular parade every Halloween. Downtown Memphis’ Beale Street is a music-lover’s paradise, with the Rum Boogie, B.B. King’s, Black Diamond, Elvis Presley’s Memphis, the King’s Palace Cafe, etc. Dyer’s Burgers gives Memphis the edge here.

Austin is home to the University of Texas, whose proud football program will perpetually overshadow any other team that dares aim for the attention of local sports buffs. Memphis is home to the University of Memphis, whose proud basketball program will perpetually overshadow any other team that dares aim for the attention of local sports buffs.

Now, forget that last nugget and hop aboard the good ship RiverKing. After all, the only thing worse than Memphis not taking the CHL title is for the hardware to wind up in, of all places, Austin.

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Sports Sports Feature

Q & A With Stubby

Now in his fourth season WITH the Redbirds, Stubby Clapp has grown about as popular as the Peabody Ducks or a Memphis sunset. But how well do we really know our backflipping second-sacker? We threw a few questions his way to try and discover the real Stubby Clapp.

Barbecue ribs … dry or wet?

Dry. In Canada, I’ve only had wet. When I got here and had the Rendezvous ribs, they were outstanding. I’ll always prefer dry now.

Elvis or Jerry Lee?

Elvis. He’s the King.

Hanging curveball or straight fastball?

Straight fastball. They go farther.

Grizzlies or Tigers?

I’d have to go with the Tigers. More exciting for me. The Tigers are younger, they’ve got stuff to strive for, and they play harder.

Ozzie Smith or Ozzy Osbourne?

Oh, you can’t do that to me! Can I say both on that? I come out [to bat] to Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train.”

Bull Durham or The Natural?

The Natural. It gets the heart going more as a baseball player. Man, you want to be that guy.

Tobacco or chewing gum?

Bubble gum, definitely.

Mike Tyson or Lennox Lewis?

Lennox Lewis. I can’t stand Tyson. He’s just a farce. There are some guys [on the team] trying to get some tickets. But you know what? I’m not a boxing fan and I’m not a Tyson fan, so if I went that would kind of make me a hypocrite, right? I’m not going to support Tyson in any kind of way.

Game-winning homer or suicide squeeze?

I’ll take the home run. Why not?

Backflip partner: Nadia Comaneci or Mary Lou Retton?

I’ll go Mary Lou. She’s old-school.

FedEx or AutoZone?

AutoZone.

That’s a straight fastball, right?

Mm-hmm.

Isaac Hayes’ or B.B. King’s?

I don’t know. I went to Isaac Hayes’ the other night and thought it was a real classy establishment, and I’ve been to B.B. King’s several times. I’m going to have to go with B.B. King’s.

If you were to listen to one?

B.B. King.

Rockey or Fredbird?

I’ll go Rockey.

Bigger stud: Mark McGwire or Albert Pujols?

Mark McGwire, still one of the best professionals that I’ve ever come across. Not taking anything away from Pujols, but he’s just getting started. McGwire lifted [St. Louis] up. He brought baseball back to the game it was. Even when he was going through his struggles last year, he was still a professional about his life and the way he handled the media. I sat between him and Mike Matheny last September. What more could I want?

Cybill Shepherd or Kathy Bates?

Cybill Shepherd.

Baseball fight or hockey fight?

Oh, a hockey fight, definitely. There’s nothing better. That takes talent. A baseball fight is just a brawl, just a big mess.

Memphis summer or Canadian winter?

Canadian winter. Snowboarding, tobogganing, hot chocolate, skating on the pond. Anytime.

Union or Poplar?

Poplar. There’s more stuff I go to on Poplar. Petco’s on Poplar. I’ve got two ferrets.

Friends or Seinfeld?

Friends. Better scenery.

Overton Square or Peabody Place?

Peabody Place. It’s brand-new, got a good look to it. It’s revived downtown.

Barbecue nachos or hot dog?

Barbecue nachos, definitely. Hot dogs? That’s just old scrap-meat.

Big-league bench or Triple-A stardom?

Big-league bench, because there’s always the potential to be a big-league star if you’re there.

Final Exam

RiverKings coach Doug Shedden says his team’s ready to win a championship.

By Chris Przybyszewski

To do: Take out trash, do laundry, get the Memphis RiverKings to second finals berth in 10-year franchise history, win Central Hockey League’s President Cup … Welcome to the world of ‘Kings coach Doug Shedden, who, at least, is in familiar territory. “This is my sixth one,” he says, before a nonmandatory ‘Kings practice. “I enjoy them. As a coach, this is what you prepare for from the start of the year — to get to the finals.”

Shedden prepares well. In his seven years as head coach of three teams (the others being the Flint Generals of the United Hockey League and the Wichita Thunder in the CHL), Shedden has compiled three championships. His teams have never failed to reach the playoffs. “Playoffs are playoffs,” he says. “It’s always going to be difficult. That’s what it’s all about. It’s never going to be easy.”

The ‘Kings haven’t had an easy time either. Their opening-round series with Fort Worth went four games in a best-of-five. In the second round, the ‘Kings had to face three-time defending champs the Bossier-Shreveport Mudbugs. That series went to seven games, with the ‘Kings beating the Mudbugs 4-2 in last Saturday’s final at the Desoto Civic Center. “It certainly was an exciting game the other night,” Shedden says. “A great series. It’s well-documented what kind of team they are and what they have done in the last couple of years. Game seven: For true hockey fans, it doesn’t get any better.”

Any trip to the finals requires overcoming adversity, but the ‘Kings are playing without two starters. Center Jonathan Gagnon and right-winger Robb Palahnuk were each called up to higher echelons of minor-league hockey. “You lose Gagnon, who has scored 40 goals for us,” Shedden says. “Then you lose Palahnuk, who scored seven goals for us in the playoffs. Obviously, your depth chart gets real low. That’s why getting past this series was so important to us, because possibly we’ll get those guys back for the finals.”

If Gagnon and Palahnuk do not return, Shedden has to figure out a way to win without them. “You have to hopefully make [the players] understand that we can win without those guys, but it’s hard,” Shedden says. “It takes more of a herculean effort from everybody. It’s more ice time, and we’re short-handed.”

Most minor-league sports are geared toward getting the players to the next level of play, but Shedden says that the finals are different. “I think in this round you use the [motivation] that you don’t get to the finals often as a player,” he says. “Don’t miss this challenge of getting there. You’ll enjoy it; it’s the number-one stage. We just tried to drill that into their heads.”

Shedden’s job got tougher on Monday night as the Austin Ice Bats beat the El Paso Buzzards in the CHL’s Southern Conference finals. The Ice Bats have a better regular-season record, so the ‘Kings lose home ice for the finals, something the team has held in the first two rounds.

“Home ice got us that seventh game, so that’s very important,” Shedden acknowledges, but that doesn’t change his perspective. “It’s going to be business as usual,” he says. “If you’re in the finals, hopefully, you have to take home ice and throw it out the window, because every game is so big. We know we have to win one in their building and then win all our games at home.”

No big deal. Just add that to the list of to-dos.

The RiverKings face the Ice Bats at home Thursday-Friday, April 25th-26th, and Sunday, April 28th (if necessary), at the Desoto Civic Center.

The Score

NOTABLE:

Memphis rookie forward Pau Gasol has broken the Grizzlies franchise record for offensive rebounds. He has 233 offensive boards on the year, with two games left to play. Gasol also holds the franchise record for most blocks in a season with his current tally of 167.

Another season record for the Grizzlies: 287 man-games lost to injury.

ESPN.com has given retired Grizzlies center Bryant Reeves the title of “most overpaid NBA player.” Reeves is still collecting on a six-year, $65 million deal.

The Grizzlies ended their home schedule with a loss, but 15 of their 23 wins have been home games. Overall, the Grizzlies are currently 5-5 over their last 10 games.

QUOTABLE:

“It’s been a bumpy road, but no one expected it to be that smooth. I am sure that in the next two years, we will be playing in the best arena in the NBA.”

— Grizzlies majority owner Michael Heisley, speaking to the crowd before the team’s last home game of the season.

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FROM MY SEAT

BOBBLE, BOBBLE, TOIL, AND TROUBLE

This bobblehead craze . . . well, it’s got my head spinning. I just don’t get it. And I’ve tried. As much as I love sports — and I’m just as much a sucker for a nice collectible as the next guy — I just don’t understand the bobblehead phenomenon. You shape and paint the likeness of a sports hero — or bench-warmer, it doesn’t seem to matter — attach the oversized head, via spring, to what amounts to a one-size-fits-all body, and you’ve got a ceramic (or plastic) “doll” for life. It would be one thing if this was a fad of sorts, kind of like those obnoxious crown-shaped air fresheners you’d see on car dashes years ago. But these babies are fetching some cash! My dad’s an economics professor. I know of supply and demand. The manufacturers are keeping the supply under control, for obvious reasons. But the demand? Why?

A recent cyber-trip to eBay provided an alarming lesson on bobble value and its relationship to the star-power of athletes. The lesson? There is no relationship.

For some perspective, we’ll start with a pair of locals. A bobblehead of the Memphis Grizzlies’ shoo-in for Rookie of the Year, Pau Gasol, was Going for around $20, as was that of Gasol’s teammate, Jason Williams. It should be noted, now, that the Williams bobblehead — designed free of hair in homage to the early-season J-Will — looked more like one of those creatures that stepped off the ship in “Close Encounters of the third Kind” than it does our loveable, dribble-happy point guard. Which is a sizable flaw, if you ask me, in the mission at hand. If I purchase a Jason Williams trading card, poster, or photo, I can look at my souvenir, share it with my buddies, even frame the image as a tribute to an NBA star. If I were to cover up the uniformed body on that bobblehead and show it to friends, they’d be sure I was displaying Bruce Willis from “12 Monkeys.”

Back to the eBay price comparison. Dallas sports fans will be happy to know they can have a bobblehead of Troy Aikman — owner of three Super Bowl rings and a mortal lock for the Hall of Fame — for around $10. Now, if they happen to be Mavericks fans and want a bobblehead of Eduardo Najera — a popular bench player still best known for having his noggin opened up in a head-on with Mateen Cleaves at the 2000 NCAAs — they’re looking at a starting price of $79.95.

Even sports fans who don’t the difference between a Zamboni and Zanzibar are going to recognize hockey legend Mario Lemieux. Probably one of the three or four hockey players that would in fact be picked out of a lineup anywhere in the U.S., to say nothing of Canada. Well, Super Mario has a bobblehead, designed in Olympic attire no less. Last I checked, the price was a very reasonable $13. When I scanned down to find Marian Gaborik’s bobblehead, imagine the shock at his price tag: $60. Or Ilya Kovalchuk’s: $25. If you know who Gaborik (a member of the Minnesota Wild) and Kovalchuk (Atlanta Thrashers) are, you need to pack your bags, grab all the Molson from your fridge, and head back to Manitoba. I don’t

care about any law of supply and demand . . . when Gaborik fetches four times as much as Lemieux, something’s amiss.

Overpriced toys, designed in unrecognizable likenesses of often mediocre professional athletes. Gimme more! What the heck ever happened to trading cards, people? Or hey, I’ll even concede some value to the line of sports figures designed by Starting Lineup. I’ve got three of them in my office, actually, a baseball player, a football player, and a hockey player. With SLUs, you at least have a somewhat poseable replica of a given athlete, sculpted with head-to-body proportion in mind. Nothing like a good Seventies-era Star Wars figure, but a reasonable attempt at least.

Perhaps most disturbing is the fact that, whereas most marketing efforts around celebrities are done in ways that flatter the star, bobbleheads would seem to accomplish the exact opposite. An individual’s appearance is reduced to what amounts to caricature (thus the easy Willis/Williams bald confusion). The Elvis bobblehead distributed by the Grizzlies April 5th could just as easily have represented one of those obnoxious New Kids on the Block from the early Nineties (don’t ask for a name). But can you imagine what it’ll go for on eBay?!

The kicker for me was seeing where Hall of Fame shortstop Ernie Banks fits in the bobblehead ranks. One of the most likeable athletes to ever suit up on American soil, Mr. Cub’s toy was priced at $15. A bobblehead of ESPN sportscaster Stuart Scott — yes a talking head bobblehead — was going for no less than $51. Is your head spinning, too?

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

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News News Feature

FROM MY SEAT

BOBBLE, BOBBLE, TOIL, AND TROUBLE

This bobblehead craze . . . well, itÕs got my head spinning. I just donÕt get it. And IÕve tried. As much as I love sports Ñ and IÕm just as much a sucker for a nice collectible as the next guy Ñ I just donÕt understand the bobblehead phenomenon. You shape and paint the likeness of a sports hero Ñ or bench-warmer, it doesnÕt seem to matter Ñ attach the oversized head, via spring, to what amounts to a one-size-fits-all body, and youÕve got a ceramic (or plastic) ÒdollÓ for life. It would be one thing if this was a fad of sorts, kind of like those obnoxious crown-shaped air fresheners youÕd see on car dashes years ago. But these babies are fetching some cash! My dadÕs an economics professor. I know of supply and demand. The manufacturers are keeping the supply under control, for obvious reasons. But the demand? Why?

A recent cyber-trip to eBay provided an alarming lesson on bobble value and its relationship to the star-power of athletes. The lesson? There is no relationship.

For some perspective, weÕll start with a pair of locals. A bobblehead of the Memphis GrizzliesÕ shoo-in for Rookie of the Year, Pau Gasol, was Going for around $20, as was that of GasolÕs teammate, Jason Williams. It should be noted, now, that the Williams bobblehead Ñ designed free of hair in homage to the early-season J-Will Ñ looked more like one of those creatures that stepped off the ship in ÒClose Encounters of the third KindÓ than it does our loveable, dribble-happy point guard. Which is a sizable flaw, if you ask me, in the mission at hand. If I purchase a Jason Williams trading card, poster, or photo, I can look at my souvenir, share it with my buddies, even frame the image as a tribute to an NBA star. If I were to cover up the uniformed body on that bobblehead and show it to friends, theyÕd be sure I was displaying Bruce Willis from Ò12 Monkeys.Ó

Back to the eBay price comparison. Dallas sports fans will be happy to know they can have a bobblehead of Troy Aikman Ñ owner of three Super Bowl rings and a mortal lock for the Hall of Fame Ñ for around $10. Now, if they happen to be Mavericks fans and want a bobblehead of Eduardo Najera Ñ a popular bench player still best known for having his noggin opened up in a head-on with Mateen Cleaves at the 2000 NCAAs Ñ theyÕre looking at a starting price of $79.95.

Even sports fans who donÕt the difference between a Zamboni and Zanzibar are going to recognize hockey legend Mario Lemieux. Probably one of the three or four hockey players that would in fact be picked out of a lineup anywhere in the U.S., to say nothing of Canada. Well, Super Mario has a bobblehead, designed in Olympic attire no less. Last I checked, the price was a very reasonable $13. When I scanned down to find Marian GaborikÕs bobblehead, imagine the shock at his price tag: $60. Or Ilya KovalchukÕs: $25. If you know who Gaborik (a member of the Minnesota Wild) and Kovalchuk (Atlanta Thrashers) are, you need to pack your bags, grab all the Molson from your fridge, and head back to Manitoba. I donÕt

care about any law of supply and demand . . . when Gaborik fetches four times as much as Lemieux, somethingÕs amiss.

Overpriced toys, designed in unrecognizable likenesses of often mediocre professional athletes. Gimme more! What the heck ever happened to trading cards, people? Or hey, IÕll even concede some value to the line of sports figures designed by Starting Lineup. IÕve got three of them in my office, actually, a baseball player, a football player, and a hockey player. With SLUs, you at least have a somewhat poseable replica of a given athlete, sculpted with head-to-body proportion in mind. Nothing like a good Seventies-era Star Wars figure, but a reasonable attempt at least.

Perhaps most disturbing is the fact that, whereas most marketing efforts around celebrities are done in ways that flatter the star, bobbleheads would seem to accomplish the exact opposite. An individualÕs appearance is reduced to what amounts to caricature (thus the easy Willis/Williams bald confusion). The Elvis bobblehead distributed by the Grizzlies April 5th could just as easily have represented one of those obnoxious New Kids on the Block from the early Nineties (donÕt ask for a name). But can you imagine what itÕll go for on eBay?!

The kicker for me was seeing where Hall of Fame shortstop Ernie Banks fits in the bobblehead ranks. One of the most likeable athletes to ever suit up on American soil, Mr. CubÕs toy was priced at $15. A bobblehead of ESPN sportscaster Stuart Scott Ñ yes a talking head bobblehead Ñ was going for no less than $51. Is your head spinning, too?

(Care to respond? Write mailonthefly@aol.com.)

Categories
News News Feature

FROM MY SEAT: A Week to Remember (And Bottle)

A WEEK TO REMEMBER (AND BOTTLE)

Whew! It took me a week . . . but I’ve managed to catch my breath. Has there ever — ever — been a sports week in this city like the one we had starting March 25th? Felt like I got knocked around for three rounds by the heavyweight champ, stumbled into the world’s most famous arena (and found some old friends), only to find my way back home..and in the company of major league ballplayers. Please, if there’s been a bigger sports week in Memphis history, let me know.

MONDAY (3/25)

It’s official. The most notorious athlete of this generation is going to bring his misogynist, ear-chomping self to Memphis for a shot at Lennox Lewis’s heavyweight championship. Whatever you think of Mike Tyson, be sure of this: his fight with Lewis on June 8th will be the biggest sporting event the Bluff City has ever seen…and arguably the biggest news out of this city (sports or otherwise) since August 16, 1977. The cheapest ticket will be $400. You won’t find a hotel room between Little Rock and Jackson. Let’s just cross our fingers that the only bloodshed to come of this date is the result of a Lewis right hook.

Across the country in Portland, our Grizzlies shook up the NBA landscape by erasing a 25-point second-half deficit to upset the playoff-bound Trail Blazers. So what if Blazer star Rasheed Wallace didn’t suit up? I don’t care if you’re facing the Danny DeVito School for the Height Impaired, making up 25 points in 24 minutes of basketball is a feat. And a franchise record for the Griz.

TUESDAY (3/26)

If University of Memphis freshman Dajuan Wagner does as many think he will and declare for the NBA draft, this was the night his decision was made. Taking the floor at Madison Square Garden for an NIT semifinal against Temple, Wagner looked as comfortable as you’d expect a native of

Camden, New Jersey, to be in the Big Apple’s rightest spotlight. He poured in 32 points — in the process breaking Penny Hardaway’s single-season Tiger scoring record — and dished to Kelly Wise for a game-winning dunk in the final minute of play. (For some gravy, our RiverKings eliminated Fort Worth in the first round of the CHL playoffs.)

WEDNESDAY (3/27)

A day of rest. Exhale.

THURSDAY (3/28)

With all due respect to the juggernaut of a dance team at the University of Memphis, never before this day had our flagship institution of higher learning brought home an NCAA-sanctioned national title. With 16 more points from tournament-MVP Wagner, Memphis whipped South Carolina, 72-62, for the the NIT championship. No, it’s not the NCAA tournament. And no, John Calipari has no interest in repeating next season. But as for consolations, this was pretty darn sweet.

FRIDAY (3/29)

Baseball’s here! Our Redbirds hosted their parent club, the St. Louis Cardinals, in an exhibition game at AutoZone Park. Appearing live were former Redbirds J.D. Drew, Placido Polanco, Garrett Stephenson, and reigning National League Rookie of the Year, Albert Pujols. Worried about the Redbirds’ offensive punch after last-season’s soft showing? You might grab the coattails of So Taguchi. The Japanese rightfielder — starting the year in Memphis after a rough big-league initiation in Florida — drilled a two-run homer and made two stellar catches to boot. Appropriately enough for the family affair that it was, the Cards and ‘Birds finished tied, 3-3, after ten innings of play.

Mother Nature crashed the party Saturday and rained out the second Cardinals-Redbirds game. You know what? I’m sort of glad she did. How much can a Memphis sports-brain take? I was sitting in the press box at the ‘Zone Friday night, shortly after the end of a 40-minute rain delay, when none other than Red Schoendienst took a seat to my right. A man who has worn a Cardinals uniform for 45 years, has nine World Series rings, and a Hall of Fame ring to boot. I introduced myself to “the ol’ redhead” and began to describe our city’s week in sports. Trouble was…where to begin?