Posted: Wednesday September 3, 2008 3:38PM; Updated: Thursday September 4, 2008 1:53PM
John Rolfe
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GETTING LOOSE
THIS WEEK'S ODDBALL ITEMS OF INTEREST
Sumos hop Pineapple Express
It's official. Every last sport on this godforsaken ball of carbon dioxide is tainted. It was bad enough that six horses were nailed for doping in Beijing, but now Japan's venerable sumo wrestling is wallowing in a marijuana scandal. Kind of lends a whole new meaning to the phrase "pot belly" and makes E-Z Wider a natural sponsor, doesn't it? In August, Wakenoho was bagged with an alleged third of a gram of Mother Nature in his wallet, an offense that could leave him sweating off the pounds in five years of forced labor if he's convicted. This week, Roho and his brother Hakurozan (photo) tested positive for the substance that has long given NBA players added elevation.
As performance-enhancers go, weed oughta help these big fellas -- whose training table regularly includes pots of stew called chankonabe augumented by hefty portions of rice, beer, eggs, dumplings and fried chicken -- really chow down ... on oreos, Cap'n Crunch, a half gallon of Death By Chocolate ice cream topped with maple syrup, the usual sweetmeats preferred by those who regularly dance with Mary Jane. Fans in Japan are fed up and fingers will likely be pointed at the influx of foreigners -- the busted Sumos are Russian -- who are apparently contaminating a once-dignified sport. While authorities go about trying to straighten matters out, you gotta figure that somewhere a Sumo named Rollabono is frantically flushing his stash down the toilet.
Paging Dr. Williams, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard
Mercurial Dolphins running back Ricky Williams, who has had more than a passing acquaintance with the wacky weed, says he's taking college courses to earn his pre-med degree. His choice of specialty: osteopathy, which focuses on the good ol' musculoskeletal system. In other words, there's no malady you can't fix by properly tweaking the muscles, joints and, um, bones. The degree could have come in handy for Williams last year. After being reinstated by the NFL after a year-and-a-half ban for repeatedly lighting up the natural turf (he failed four drug tests that indicated the forbidden use of Bobo bush), he was promptly sidelined again when Steelers linebacker Lawrence Timmons stomped Williams' right shoulder as he tried to recover a fumble. Physician, heal thyself.
Lest you think I'm making cheap sport of Williams' academic endeavor, let me say that I'll always applaud an athlete who is smart enough to continue his higher education -- without the higher part, of course.
Another Canseco of worms
If this great nation ever sets up a Ministry of Truth, I nominate Jose Canseco as its first minister. The admitted steroid cheat, who's made a tidy cottage industry out of blowing the whistle on others' misdeeds, has reportedly taped an episode of reportedly taped an episode ofMoment of Truth, the exciting TV show where contestants can win valuable prizes by truthfully answering the most mortifying personal questions in front of a leering national audience. Ol' Jose's a natural, and reportedly he's been asked -- while hooked up to a lie-detector -- corkers such as if he ever doctored his lumber or poked former teammate Mark McGwire in the caboose with an illicit performance-enhancer.
Those who are foaming at the mouth to hear what kind of juicy dish Canseco spills next should keep in mind that polygraphs are not admissable in court and can give false readings when attached to cucumber-cool liars or improperly operated. Then again, we live in such a junkyard age that Canseco can say just about anything about anyone and chances are it will turn out to be true even if he has no idea about the veracity of what he's yapping about.
Green is the color
Maybe I'm just a sour, encrusted relic of a time when pro sports were affordable, but I choke on my Maypo when I read what teams are demanding from their most loyal fans just for the right to buy season tickets. Last week's news that the New York Jets have upped their prices by as much as $25,000 in some cases (they exempted upper deck seats) made me wonder who can afford to cough up that kind of cake in this economy. Of course, if you fire up Cubans with flaming hundred dollar bills while alarming the neighbors with your gleeful cackles, then you don't blink at the Mob-inspired price tags that are routinely attached to personal seat licenses, or what the Yankees will demand for a $250 lower box seat in their new emporium next season ($500 to $2,500 including grub).
Sure, someone's got to pay for the new stadiums, but what curries this space's goat is the audacity and unfairness of breathtaking price hikes. If you're a Jets fan who's gamely held lower seats since the days when Dick Wood barked the signals, you better have a robust China pig or you're SOL with the PSL. It's bad enough that you're often forced to buy tickets to games you don't want in order to get ones to the games you do, or that convenience charges, processing fees and fee fees further inflate prices. Lawd knows, these aren't the most fan-friendly times, as Phil Mushnick chronicles and laments in his column in the New York Post. Amazingly, enough people are still willing and able to pay $25,000 in order to pay even more for their yearly dose of heartbreak and aggravation from Gang Green.
Going Wild
While you're paying through the hooter for your seat, a tube of sodium-laced fat and a cup of flat suds, it's always comforting to know there's a mascot nearby blocking your view of the action. And surely what the world needs now is another mascot. Enter the Minnesota Wild, who plan to unveil their new one in October. Now don't get me wrong. I think mascots are not inherently evil. They are surely part of the warp and woof of college sports, and they certainly belong with minor league teams, where they seem to enhance the family-friendly atmosphere with their t-shirt cannons and goofy dances. I say seem to, because mascots can terrify young children much in the same way that clowns do -- when they're not inviting attacks by the nasty little buggers, as SI For KidsDavin Coburn discovered several years ago during a stint as Metro, the cheer dog of MLS's former New York-New Jersey MetroStars.
Pro sports are another matter. I recall the hapless Doodle, the Yankees' shortlived mascot, who was an object of scorn for bringing cheese to the dignified confines of The House of Ruth Built. In other arenas, mascots are often up to no good (see the embroglios of the Philly Phanatic, Famous Chicken and Mariner Moose). As for the Wild, the mind boggles at the prospect of the creature they'll come up with to reflect their nebulous team name. One imagines it will resemble the yum-yum-eat-em-up guy from the Little Rascals epic (photo) and that it will meet a fate as ugly as the one suffered by Harvey the Hound, the Calgary Flames' mascot that had its tongue ripped out by enraged Edmonton Oilers coach Craig MacTavish.
Sarah Palin's darkest secret
John McCain's running mate is off to a flying start, ain't she? The uproar about her preggers teen daughter and the debate about Palin's qualifications to be one clutched chest away from the presidency were further spiced by an old clip from her days as a TV sports babe. Her defenders can argue that Palin is merely following in the grand Republican tradition of Dutch Reagan, who once broadcast University of Iowa games on the radio and recreated Chicago Cubs epics from a studio with the aid of wire reports. And Palin seems steeped in sports. She played high school hoops and one of her kids is named Track. (Can Field be far behind?)
Then again, we demand that our leaders, like our athletes, be pure and there are fewer more scurrilous, damning and polarizing pursuits in this world than sportscaster. Don't believe it? Then ask yourself this question: Who makes your blood boil, your teeth grind, and your fingers ball up in clenched fists of sputtering rage to the greatest degree: a sportscaster or a politician?
I thought so.
Industrial Strength Male Enhancement
And finally, this alarming note from the corner of the sports landscape that prominently features those ubiquitous ads for pills and potions that help guys put the wood back in the ol' Louisville Slugger, so to speak. It seems that a poor schlub in Malaysia turned to the, um, toolbox while seeking a performance-enhancer and paid for it big time. Surely that grinning lunatic Smilin' Bob from the TV commercials wouldn't be smilin' quite so wide if he tried this technique.
So let it serve as a lesson to all: never do anything you don't want to explain to a paramedic.
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