1. Wednesday, October 9, 2002

    yesterday when i took the bus home 

    i felt a little bad for picking on costas the way i did. he’s never really hurt anyone. he’s just a man, just like me, trying to get a paycheck for his family, earn a living, do a job.

    of course im jealous that he gets to do what any sports fan would love to do, which is meet all the greats and talk to them and get paid millions to be in cool places where we would do anything to get to be. and of course i don’t mean all the things that i say in the blog, for example im sure if costas had a candy store he wouldn’t just have one flavor of bubble gum filling the place, he’s not that dumb, he’d have his favorite kind too, sugarless.

    but then i got home and there were flowers at my door there were “dancers” who wanted to give me a rub down, my email overflowed, i had more comments in my comments section than, hell, a week ago when i implied that the president was a jackass.

    basically the public not only agreed with me, but they wanted to thank me and share their disgust for costas.

    sweet approval, you proud yet elusive unicorn.

    i got links from people who had never linked me, like the photo dude and ernie the attorney, i got daily pundit-ed, i even got a kiss on the cheek from the hottie in the halls who wears this D-12 tshirt and whispered that she likes my hair cut short.

    who knew vitriol was an aphrodisiac?

    of course i got some facts wrong. minor ones, like costas is from new york, not st. louis. whatever. and that harry didn’t get fired for schtupping the boss’s daughter but for getting caught with the boss’s wife. but these sorts of details can’t seriously be researched when a man like myself only has 15 minutes twice a day during work hours to write in his blog. if you don’t like what you see, either politely correct me in the comments or blame the government for not giving us longer smoke breaks.

    at least i smoke during my breaks.

    but i do love the comments that you people leave me. without you i would have never known that harry not only got fired for giving it to Mrs. Busch, but he got both of his legs broken as well as assorted other injuries in what was considered an auto accident.

    and im no apologist of adultery, but look at harry, the boss’s wife must have wanted to send a message to her husband if out of all the men in st. louis, she chose romeo there.

    i also appreciated the comment that someone left that mourned the loss of len dawson and nick bonnacontti from hbo’s once wonderful “inside the nfl.” why hbo thought it was a smart move to take costas off a failing show which he was the host, and dump him on “inside the nfl” which has done fine for 17 years despite itself, is beyond me. hbo makes very few bad moves. that one was ridiculous.

    people have written that they wonder what costas ever did to me. he bored me. that’s what he did to me.

    i once had an english professor who said the worst thing you could ever do to your audience is bore them.

    i had the great honor of once seeing punk rock singer gg allin perform in my beloved isla vista while i attended school there. this man got on stage took off his clothes, urinated, defecated, yelled, cursed, attempted to kick anyone who got near the stage with his steel pointed cowboy boots, and then he threw his waste at the horrified crowd after he sliced his chest repeatedly with a broken beer bottle.

    that, my friends, is how not to bore an audience.

    do i want bob costas to take off his clothes before he gets on the mic and throw poop at the camera.

    of course i do.

    but i will settle for him to retire instead.

    and if he wont do that, i would like it if he shuts the hell up and allows the real experts around him to get a word in from time to time. costas is no howard coselle. no one tuned in to listen to him talk. he never played the game, and he never will.

    he is someone’s little brother who tagged along and somehow ended up in front of the camera. he should do as i would do if i got on the mic, i would let the pictures tell the thousand words. i would tell you things that you might not have remembered but they were sent into my earpeice. i would get out of the way. i would let the hall of famers have their say. i would drink my beer and be a fan. and when i talked i would sound like a man.

    theres a rhythm and a song to vin scully’s voice. there was an excitement and a love in red barber’s. jon miller has the perfect blend of humor and reverence as he calls the game and you can hear him revert back to broadcasting 101 when he gives the pitch count, and paints the picture, and tells you the score.

    costas makes it okay to be bland and sterile and polished and smooth. but its not okay. when i drink rum i want a little bite to it. when i kiss a girl i want to walk away with some of her glitter.

    there’s movement to a well-thrown fastball that costas will never master since he pitches underhanded from the edge of the mound on a sunday in his cutoffs.

    the era of costas needs to pass. i harp on him and nbc isn’t even doing the playoffs, but his staleness seeps into the sounds of the game and it appears to me, not that im any expert, that there are far more costas-influenced broadcasters than caray ones.

    i know the Lord broke the mold when He made Harry, but still, i’ll take fifteen Ueckers over one costas.

    my break is just about over so let me leave you with a little tale that Harry told Sports Illustrated in ’78 when Ron Fimrite did a feature on him.

    Harry says:

    “About seven years ago my car stalled outside the Chase-Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis, where I used to spend a lot of time. I was sitting there about four in the morning, cursing my bad luck, when these two guys came up to me. Each of them stuck a gun in my ribs. Hoo boy! Then one of them said, ‘Hey, Harry. It’s you, isn’t it? What’re you doing out this late? Are you one of us?’ I’d been a broadcaster in St. Louis for 25 years, you know, so I was pretty well known there. Well, this guy put his gun away, and we just stood there jawing about baseball. They forgot they were mugging me, and I forgot I was being mugged. We were all just fans. I signed a couple of autographs, and they took off without taking a nickel.”