It’s not the kind of crush that should cause Mr. Simmonds any discomfort nor any concerns that perhaps he has picked up a deranged stalker. My crush is based solely on his hockey skills and style of play. In the tradition of hockey players and ice warriors, who have called Philadelphia home, he is the epitome of Flyers hockey!
Simmonds style best exemplifies that of Gary Dornhoefer
Simmonds hardly ever looks as pretty on his skates as most of those named above, but his heart and level of effort never comes up short in comparison to those beloved Flyers.
Simmonds came to Flyers via his original NHL team, the Los Angeles Kings; traded along with Brayden Schenn and a 2012 2nd round pick for Mike Richards and Rob Bordson after the 2010-2011 season.
When I first saw Simmonds play for the Orange and Black as the 2011-12 season got underway, I was apoplectic. “Who the —- is this guy?!? He can’t even skate!”
Or so it seemed.
When you see Simmonds pumping along the boards, working to get up a full head of steam down the ice, all you see are elbows, arms, and knees each appearing to be headed in different directions. It looks – quite frankly – about what you would expect if I was ice skating … for the very first time … being chased by a polar bear.
The appearance of frantic flailing …
Ungainly, not very pretty, certainly not Ice Capades worthy. But the rest of Simmonds’ game is – in a word – beautiful!
Athletic skill is undeniable when it comes to Simmonds’ hockey presence. Be it hunting the crease for loose pucks; standing in the line-of-fire for just a chance at screening the goalie’s vision; mucking along the boards, elbows and knees akimbo; or looking to pummel an opposing player taking unwelcome liberties, Simmonds is unquestionably quick, strong and hockey-smart.
In addition, Simmonds is unhesitating when it comes to defending himself or his teammates with his fists … the self-policing part of hockey that provides an outlet in those instances when players take physical liberties within the gray areas of the game and its rules.
Simmonds even has two Gordie Howe Hat Tricks (goal, assist, fight) to his credit this season all in the span of four days!
Now I wrote this piece with eyes wide open, fully realizing that the 2012-13 version of the Philadelphia Flyers have demonstrated little that instills hope that this season will not end before the first or second round of the NHL Playoffs … should they get even that far. I wrote this simply to recognize a player I enjoy immensely whenever I watch my favorite NHL team play.
What has been promising this season is the play of Jakub Voracek and Simmonds, along with the emergence of a focused, earth-bound Ilya Bryzgalov, who may have finally answered the Flyers perennial goalie crisis.
The Flyers simply have too many holes where players are not being smart with the puck; causing too many turnovers; or being caught out of position defensively. Whatever changes result from this disappointing, short season, Flyers fans should hold fast that both SImmonds and Voracek stay with the team!
Prior to this season the Flyers moved to make star Center Claude Giroux Captain of the Orange & Black. It was the smart move and certainly appropriate given Giroux’s play and on-ice leadership over the last several seasons. Yet you have to consider that Wayne Simmonds could very well have been a legitimate choice in his own right – had he been here long enough, especially if one considers hard work and team-oriented play demonstrations of hockey leadership.
Change is a word loaded with potential, dread, promise, and uncertainty. Change is powerful. Change is scary. Change is hopeful.
As a single word, “Change” became half the anthem (Hope and Change) of President Obama’s 2008 Presidential race. The word was a double-edged sword, cutting both to the positive and to the negative depending on which end of the sword you were standing. Five years later, whether you perceive that any real Change has occurred depends not only on your perception of Change, but also what you thought needed – or did not need – changing.
You hear references to Change in every facet of life eventually. Usually when you least want to deal with it. In the workaday world, Change is often sold as a panacea for everything from sluggish performance to being severely underfunded. In those situations, the attempts to sell Change with its accompanying catch-phrases can be annoying or downright foreboding.
The older you are, the more set in your ways, the more threatening Change can appear.
My perspective on Change is that it is inevitable no matter what your situation or station in life. Never count on anything remaining the same forever; and you can bet, when you find something in your life that is comfortable, enjoyable, or efficiently familiar, it will Change.
My personal demon in Change is the dreaded “Change for the sake of Change“, an underlying mantra in Government and its lecherous bureaucracy. I have experienced change in my Department of Defense job that was simply the result of one person’s hellbent desire to claim Change as part of their legacy, sad as that reality is.
These individuals resort to changing the work paradigm as they head out the door for leisure pastures, leaving those left behind to deal with the consequences. Like the engineering feat required to change the course of a mighty river, they view their ability to make the Bureaucrats bend to their will – even in a small way – as a personal feat of professional strength.
Rarely is such Change viewed favorably. The common reaction being, if it was such a great idea, why didn’t you pursue before you started heading out the door?
And so with that as a background, let’s look at a few examples in the recent news of good Change – bad Change, we Change – you Change. Being a male, my particular interests well-known here, most of these examples involve sports and politics.
Except this one of course …
State Patty’s Day
Authorities in State College, PA, home of Penn State University are offering three dozen downtown bars, restaurants and package stores $5000 subsidies to cut off sales of alcohol during the annual State Patty’s Day celebration. The party weekend, created spontaneously by Penn State students when St. Patrick’s Day fell over Spring break, has become a community nuisance. Excessive drinking, arrests and property damage became such a huge problem that community groups have been joined by the students themselves in seeking solutions to Change the paradigm.
Good Change … Good for the community, for Penn State, for law enforcement, and for the students themselves, But with a price tag of an estimated $180,000., you certainly hope the benefits outweigh the payoffs to be made in the name of peace-of-mind.
Beware the Walmart Mom
Sometimes Change is the result of how one sees their station in life being affected by those in leadership positions. Let us consider the political leanings of the Walmart Moms.
Some might consider the Walmart Mom moniker to be demeaning or perhaps a judgement of economic impotence. But the Walmart Mom has become a political force in recent years. The Walmart Mom has been studied extensively by both political parties as defined as a woman, who shops at Walmart at least once a month and comprises a significant 14-17% of the electorate.
In 2008 Walmart Moms voted for Barack Obama in 2008. In 2010 they switched to support Republicans in the mid-term elections. Then switched back again to support the President’s 2012 re-election.
A small group of Walmart Moms was the subject of a recent Philadelphia Inquirer article. (See above link.) The impression one gets is that the Walmart Mom views politics and the opposing parties from the perspective of how those parties’ politics and policies affect their lives.
The women, who were brought together during the President’s recent State of the Union address, recognized both parties as obstructionist whenever their opposition controls The Oval Office. They prioritized the issues facing them as women and mothers, feeling less supportive of issues like immigration reform and climate change. They support efforts to reduce gun violence.
The recent trend suggests the Walmart Moms could be persuaded to back a coherent Republican message in the 2014 midterms; yet they were baffled as to the current Republican message.
For Republicans, this potential for Change relies on their ability to prove to the Walmart Mom that they have their best interests at heart. At this point, the prospects for persuading the Walmart Moms to switch away from the Democrats has to be scary for the GOP.
Self interest is often the catalyst for Change. If your target audience sees you as no better than the current regime, you never stand a chance.
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Appropriate artsy intermission:
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Back to our program …
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Change can be the source of anxiety, both welcome and foreboding. For examples we need not look any further than our beloved Philadelphia sports teams.
Charlie’s Last Year?
As the Philadelphia Phillies gear up for the 2013 MLB season, many of its fans speculate on whether this season will be Charlie Manuel‘s swan song. His current contract will expire at the end of the season; and at the age of 69, there is much to consider for both Manuel and the Phillies.
The Phillies have been grooming Ryne Sandberg, a Hall of Fame second basemen the Phillies stupidly traded before the 1982 season along with Larry Bowa for Ivan DeJesus (Don’t get me started!), for a shot at a managerial job. The question is … Is Charlie ready to move on?
One would think Manuel might be ready to move up in the organization, but not likely to move on to another managing job. And frankly, it would be an insult to push Manuel out the door, unless of course 2013 turns out to be a down year unrelated to the many injuries the team suffered last season.
In the best of both worlds, Charlie goes out when he’s ready as is worthy of a World Series winning manager; and Ryne Sandberg is still waiting in the wings to take Manuel’s spot as the team’s on-field General.
Provided the upcoming season does not provoke a rash change in Uncle Charlie’s status, Phillies fans should feel good about Manuel moving on, whether it be into retirement or on to an executive opportunity here or elsewhere.
Of course Charlie could decide after the 2013 season that he’s not ready to move off the bench just yet. In which case Change will just have to wait.
Can a Duck help the Eagles?
The team on the other side of Pattison Avenue is facing a situation of an entirely different hue. After 14 seasons of Andy Reid‘s leadership, the Philadelphia Eagles are facing a challenge they have not experienced since the turn of the century.
New head coach Chip Kelly comes from the vaunted University of Oregon Ducks, a team that ran a very up-tempo offense that requires a lot of speed, read and react play by the Quarterback, and the ability to keep defenses off-balance by constantly pressing the offensive attack.
The Change has elicited a set of anxiety reactions in fans that covers just about every facet of play on the field and personnel management off it.
First and foremost is whether Kelly’s high-octane offense can work in the NFL. Indications are that it already is in limited ways on a number of teams, including the New England Patriots and Superbowl contender, San Francisco 49’ers. But the underlying cause for concern revolves around the question of player personnel and their suitability to run Kelly’s fast paced, attack offense.
The level of anxiety gets ratcheted up for some Eagles fans when they consider the prospects of promising, but unproven QB Nick Foles, and even more so when the Eagles decided to re-sign out-of-favor QB Michael Vick.
All you need to turn most Philadelphia Eagles fans into helpless bundles of anxiety riddled meatbags is to throw the above questions into a bowl; stir in huge gaps on the offensive line and the question of how Kelly and new Defensive Coordinator, Billy Davis will remake the team on the defensive side of the ball; and serve over a defensive secondary that at times couldn’t cover a casserole dish.
Finally, Change can be seen as threatening, while at the same time provide a wealth of opportunity.
That Lada … What a cherry ride!
Recently, Christine Armario wrote an article, featured on the Associated Press, about the extreme manipulations Cubans must go through in order to keep the island’s very, very old fleet of long outdated Russian automobiles running. The mainstays of the island’s remaining auto fleet are upwards of 30-year-old, ancient Russian Lada and Moskvich models, for which it’s almost impossible to buy parts.
While it’s hard to fathom a Cuban visitor to Miami having to walk into a certain auto parts store; walking out with a carburetor or a set of brake pads: and having to physically carry back to the home island. It’s even harder to rationalize this country’s continued reluctance to exploit – if you will – a country and a people so ripe for the depth and breadth of opportunities America can provide.
The problem? Well, it’s Cuba!
Long the bane of 1960 Domino Theory on the control of the spread of Communism … Site of President John F. Kennedy’s biggest foreign relations/national security blunder … Home of one of the most ruthless – and oldest – Red revolutionaries … And of course home to hundreds of thousands of Cuban expatriates currently living in the U.S. after leaving Cuba in the decades since the Fidel Castro-led revolution.
But it’s difficult to ignore a Cuba that is very backward in its economy, infrastructure, politics and human rights.
Imagine what a boon to American business to have a country just 90 miles off the coast of Florida as very needy destination for construction services, consumer goods, medical equipment, and technology. Imagine the inroads – now that Fidel is near terminal age – Americans can make in exporting its way of life, political freedoms and social philosophies.
Imagine how grateful the Cuban people, and maybe even the post-Fidel or post-Raul Cuban government might be, especially now that the Russians are no longer as influential internationally as they were two decades ago.
There’s a wealth of opportunity there. But it will require a sea change in public and political perceptions to make it happen.
Don’t be too hard on Jon Papelbon for his remarks about a lack of leadership on the Philadelphia Phillies last season. He is dead-on correct. He nails the problem I had last season with players like Hunter Pence, Shane Victorino, even J-Ro.
No one – it seemed to me – stepped up to fill the void left by the absence of their injured stars/natural leaders. Someone to shake life into a team that wallowed in a state similar to the characters, Vladimir and Estragon in “Waiting for Godot“. Waiting for Someone to come along and show them the way.
Give Papelbon credit for seeing things like they were; recognizing his own role in the leadership void; and his promise to get more involved this year!
Nothing like a little honesty to set a tone for an important season!
(The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names of the guilty have been changed.)
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Philadelphia sport fans are generally religious when it comes to their teams. They will wear their emotions and allegiances proudly on their sleeve and wallow for weeks when hopes for a championship dissolve into disappointment.
They also travel well, whether that means staying loyal to their hometown teams when forced to relocate to other regions of the country or the simple prospect of traveling to other sports cities to support the Philly teams on the road. If you happened to watch any of the Philadelphia Flyers games this past weekend, you no doubt noticed the numbers of Philly faithful – both winter snowbirds and permanent transplants – taking the opportunity to see the hometown boys taking on the local Florida competition.
Of course, such is not always the case. And from time-to-time, former Philadelphia sports fans fall for the allure of a local team or the no muss, no fuss ease of jumping on the nearest bandwagon.
Sometimes you can see The Leap coming for months …
Thus, there was no real surprise recently when several familiar faces, long-time Philly residents who had relocated to points South, appeared on Facebook wearing the colors and whooping it up for the NFL successes of the local football team, the Baltimore Ravens.
Bennie A, renown for picking the British as his “AFC homeland”!
To protect their identity, we will simply refer to them here as Benedict and Arnold.
You could sense a change in the familiar sports attitudes emanating from a mid-sized metropolitan area in Maryland a few years ago, when idle chitchat during a family gathering took a turn towards the off-season prospects of the Purple and Gold. No big deal at the time, as Benedict’s brother – also once a Philly sports fan – had morphed into a Ravens fan after years of Maryland living.
We took note when the aforementioned Bennie received a brand new Ravens jersey as a gift recently, the name Suggs prominently stitched on the back. And as chance might have it, Bene’s brother has a well-appointed Baltimore Ravens man-cave in his home just a few doors down from Bennie and Arnie’s version of West Point (historical point of reference; see Arnold, Benedict).
You could almost HEAR the colors changing!
So of course, a week or so ago we were treated to assorted Facebook posts showing the midst of their Raven-esque AFC Championship game festivities and the hullabaloo the resulted when the Baltimore team won and landed a berth in the Superbowl.
Not being able to remain silent any longer, I challenged Arnold on where their loyalties lie. The Answer?
“They are our ‘AFC team’!”
uh huh …
Now, I try not to be cynical.
(OK … I don’t try very hard; but I try a little.)
So immediately, I imagine all sorts of possible scenarios that play into my somewhat difficult-to-resist cynicism.
Majestic Eagle …??
Would this phenomena occur in The Natural World, if say the ravens, notorious scavengers, unable to actively hunt to sustain themselves, were 4-12 in road-kill contests; but the eagles, proud and superior hunters, were 11-5 in superbly executed trout fishing attempts? Would fans of The Natural World be tempted into dumping the majestic eagles for road-killed squirrel-eating ravens, if success continued to favor the predator that serves as the National Emblem?
(Pardon me, I mean would they be inclined to supplement their loyalty with the raven as their designated “carrion-eating bird”?)
Back in the Sports World, I imagine I have missed many an opportunity over the years to adopt my own “AFC team”; thereby feeling free to enjoy the success and championship seasons of the cross-state Pittsburgh Steelers. After all, I could find no guidance on geographical limits to bandwagon jumping!
What if Bennie and Arnie decided they needed an additional American League baseball team? Actually , I’m surprised that hasn’t happened yet, since the Baltimore Orioles are just as geographically convenient, and they enjoyed a 14-games-over-.500 playoff season in 2012!
…. or this sorry excuse for a bird?
I just HOPE they aren’t holding out for another season before deciding they need an alternate NL East team, since the Nationals must look mighty tempting to anyone tired of waiting for the Phillies’ to work through their current rough stretch!
That would be the real dagger in the back of Philadelphia Sports Loyalty to which Bennie and Arnie still profess to cling. But once The Seal is broken, all kinds of contamination is possible!
They could insist on having another NHL team (Washington Capitals) or another NFC East team (Redskins)!
But of course, the BIG QUESTION is this …
What happens when their original home town Philadelphia Eagles and their “AFC team”, Baltimore Ravens face-off? That might be a sticky enough situation during the regular season, with that Ravens man-cave right down the street and all those Ravens lovers in such close proximity. But even worse …
What would happen if the Eagles and Ravens faced off in a Superbowl somewhere down the road?!? My doubts fester to a boil as I consider the possibilities.
I envision scenes of frequent bathroom visits to switch between the colors of one team or the other based on the state of the scoreboard!
Then it hit me!
The Answer to their conflicting emotions in such a situation … and a nice little niche market to be exploited by some enterprising merchandiser. Reversible football jerseys!
A jersey that would show the colors and emblems of one team that could be easily turned inside-out at the drop of a hat – or a change in the scoreboard – to show the colors and emblems of another!
In the late 1960’s Philadelphia Steel & Wire, a small steel processing company located on Belfield Avenue in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, decided to move its operations to a larger, newer facility to be built near the North(east) Philadelphia Airport in Northeast Philadelphia.
So, in 1966 our family moved from a twin on Penn Street to a brand new rowhouse in the Holmesburg section of the Great Northeast. Our old house, which was just across Penn Street (now Penn Boulevard) from the quaint red-brick buildings of Germantown Hospital, is long gone. Just a parking lot now; devoured at some point by the growing hospital.
The relocation was the end of the old; the beginning of the new. And for a 10-year old, barely familiar with the world outside of the five-home Germantown enclave he lived in, it was an anxious, unsettling move.
Much of our new rowhouse was still in its proverbial cellophane wrapper when this Germantown refugee walked outside to explore his new environment. One of my first memories of the new ‘hood was watching three brothers from down the street pour out of their brand-new rowhouse in a cacophony of harsh words and flying fists.
Great, I thought, I moved into a Three Stooges episode!
In minutes I was the unwitting ally in a fraternal civil war fought with stones and insults. But when the dust cleared, it was the beginning of a new stage in my young life.
For some reason, these three brothers, who were always at each others throats – or so it seemed – could do one thing without reaching for the Missile Launch Codes. They could play Wiffle ball!
Wiffle ball – for the uninitiated – was one solution to a city boy’s dream of playing ball in tight quarters without causing property damage. Played with plastic bats and relatively short-flight plastic balls with perforations engineered for the purpose of throwing junk pitches, it joined the ranks of half-ball, stickball, hoseball and boxball as urban versions of baseball, the game played by boyhood Heroes.
No need to find an open basketball court. No requirement to round-up six or eight compadres in order to cover a full football or baseball field. Just find a vacant lot suitable for a field and choose up sides!
Like all neighborhoods in large cities, our games were dictated by the surrounding geography. And although we had the luxury of the playground at Robert B. Pollock Elementary School roughly a quarter-mile away, the convenience of playing smaller games just a few houses away from the comforts of Home was hard to beat.
Our house sat directly across from a PECO (Philadelphia Electric) substation on Ashton Road. In later years our house and the fenced substation would serve as Home Field for our half-ball games. Homeruns most obviously defined by hitting one over the substation fence; triples up against the fence or falling on the sidewalk across somewhat busy two-lane Ashton Road; and doubles – if the fielder chose not to dodge the traffic – were those halfies that landed in the roadway.
But it was our wiffle ball field (Let’s call it Duplex Field, since it sat next to one of the two-apartment duplexes that framed each set of rowhouses.) was the only field of play that FELT like real baseball.
As with all great baseball venues, our wiffle ball field had its little quirks and unique characteristics that went missing when legendary baseball cathedrals gave way to the cookie-cutter, all-purpose stadiums that became the rage in cities like Philadelphia (Veterans Stadium), Pittsburgh (Three Rivers Stadium), and Cincinnati (Riverfront Stadium) in the 1970s.
The physical characteristics of Duplex Field included a Petco Park-type brick building, the duplex running the length of the 3rd base side; jutting precipitously into the left field corner; and offering an imposing challenge to the dead-pull right-handed hitter who wanted to yank one down the left field line.
The outfield “wall” was a chain link fence (Aaron Rowand meet Citizens Bank Park!) protecting the outfielders from a nasty plunge into the sunken yards of the row homes of Ryerson Circle. The right-center field portion of this fence was fronted by triples-producing trench (a Bizarro World reversal of those famed warning track mounds at Crosley and Ebbets Fields), usually full of leaves and discarded paper that made retrieval of in-play balls a slapstick farce of flailing arms and flying trash.
Crosley Field had The Terrace hill. Imagine instead a trash-filled trench …
The most endearing feature of Duplex Field was the rock strewn diamond itself.
Real estate limitations and the flight dynamics of the plastic wiffle ball made a true outfield totally unnecessary. We could barely fit a reasonably sized infield into our bandbox ballpark; so the rough dimensions of our diamond made up almost the entire playing surface.
Second base sat maybe four feet from the centerfield fence. First base crowded the guardrail boundary of the neighboring gas station (at Ashton & Willits Roads), and third sat on a slight incline bordering the lawn on the duplex property. Homeplate enjoyed its own green space backstop where the at-bat team could loll about in semi-suburban luxury.
And that’s how we spent the two or three summers when there was little else to worry about other than how to fill up those idle summer hours. We were Wiffleball Kings!
In a time when parents would see their children – especially their sons – at breakfast and not again until dinner time, there were no video games, no cable TV (three channels unless you had a UHF-capable set), no internet, no DVDs in stacks by an entertainment center. As kids we found all sorts of distractions and activities to fill those long summer days.
For us in the middle years of the 1960s, before we were pulled away by the semi-grownup responsibilities of newspaper routes, part-time jobs, and – gulp! – girls, we did little but play wiffle ball. We would start at 9:30 or 10:00 in the morning and play all day, or at least until the woman running the developer’s office in the basement of the duplex had enough of the noise and chased us off!
And when she climbed into her pink Mustang and went home for the day, we played until dinner, then played some more until the dark chased us on to other idle meanderings.
At times we went a bit too far in trying to emulate our real-life baseball heroes. Keeping records and statistics that rendered our games more adult and serious than they should have been. But our games were also a doorway that opened up our own little world to the larger neighborhood we would live in as teens. Challenges received and issued with other neighborhood clans expanded our circle of friends and introduced us The Outside World.
In the end, wiffle ball was a portal to relationships that would blossom in the years to come.
Our field became the preferred wiffle ball venue, our own version of the old, original Cathedrals of Baseball. It was the perfect melding of the grown-ups game with that of the kid’s size game. The grown-up world with the life of a kid.
It was the kind of life we took for granted as all kids do. The kind of life you never thought would end, would never change. The kind of life that in later years you looked back on with nostalgia and – maybe – a touch of envy for the carefree existence you wish you could recapture if only for a day … maybe even for just a few hours.
It was a time when there was no bigger aspiration to live up to than being a Wiffleball King!
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PRUPDATE:(Kind of an pre-update since I haven’t even posted this yet; hence the term prupdate.)
I was going to include several pictures of the old wiffle ball field in this post. Even drove down to the old ‘hood to take pictures like some creepy tourist.
But the pictures of Duplex Field suck (a technical photography term) from the point of view of giving you a true appreciation of our once semi-magnificent field. I post them below, just to back up my earlier “teasing” up of this story on Facebook.
I was shocked when I saw the old field, really just another yard. I said to myself, “Where the hell did all these trees come from?”
Oh yeah … That was almost 50 years ago. Then I uttered the “C” word …
This literary audible on the famous words of renown football commentator, Bill Shakespeare, is a fitting summary of what this humble post will attempt to accomplish. The obvious, sorry state of The Philadelphia Eagles makes it all but certain that Andy Reid will lose his position as Head Coach, as well as his other hat as Executive Vice President of Football Operations.
Some will view Reid’s departure from Lincoln Financial Field as the End of an Era. A few – for some reason – will view it as the End of an Error. And many will see it simply as the final comeuppance for The Emporer Without Cloths, Philly’s own Football Caesar.
The pressure will be on Laurie to find not just a replacement, but an improvement.
No doubt those who would rather subscribe to the original Shakespearean version (i.e. to Bury, not to Praise) lost patience with Andy Reid a long time ago. They soured on Andy Reid’s tight-lipped, team first, “I have to do a better job. Time’s yours.” public persona. To many fans this media approach was seen as a refusal to take responsibility, an attempt to avoid the kind of painfully in-depth scrutiny Philadelphia sports fans thrive upon, perhaps even a touch of how-dare-you-question-me football hubris.
The act worked just fine for Reid when the Eagles were regularly advancing deep into the NFL playoffs, not so much once The Birds started to moult.
The Fall wasn’t really precipitous in my opinion; more like a long, slow glide down the Slope of Mediocrity.
A few facts and observations before I get to the objective of this post.
I have always been a fairly passionate defender of Reid’s, at least until recently. Again, this change wasn’t an overnight development. My dissatisfaction has been slowly building as The Eagles slid down that aforementioned slope.
Personally, I suspect that the Reid family problems played a significant role in Andy’s inability to stay atop the NFL coaching pinnacle. This is not an attempt to provide an excuse, simply an observation. It’s hard to imagine anyone being able to maintain their focus at the highest levels in any profession when there is trouble at home.
The REAL and most over-riding problem however has been the failure of Reid’s most recent decision-making. From
An intriguing move that simply didn’t work out.
poor draft choices, through questionable free agent signings, to truly mind-boggling coaching staff decisions … The development of Michael Vick into Quarterback That Can Run vs. Running Quarterback has not worked. The Juan Castillo Experiment was an abject failure. Danny Watkins, Nate Allen, Jaiquawn Jarrett …??? Please …
And yet, none of the above is what I really want to write about here. I’d much rather concentrate on what went right early on in Reid’s tenure, and how it turned around a team and captured a city that – for some reason – so closely associates its image with those of its sports teams.
That’s not to say the trip was a bed of roses. Five appearances in the NFC Championship with only ONE Superbowl appearance – and a loss at that – will stick in the craw of many an Eagles fan (mine included). One wonders just how much brighter Reid’s star would have shined had he won just ONE of those five elusive Superbowl opportunities.
The question perhaps comes down to this … Is it better to be a Marv Levy (Buffalo Bills – Superbowl appearances: 4, Lombardo trophies: 0) or Jon Gruden (Tampa Bay Buccaneers – Superbowl appearances: 1, Lombardi trophies: 1)? That the Reid version of Marv Levy involves five NFC Championships and just one Superbowl, not four or five Superbowl appearances certainly makes the issue a bit thornier, I admit.
I have always found it interesting that so many Philadelphia Eagles fans defined a “succesful Eagles season” – especially during the Reid Era – as one that absolutely, positively had to end in a Superbowl. There rarely seemed to be any credit from so many fans for getting to the NFC Championship, which essentially defines an NFL team as one of the four most successful organizations in a given season, which always starts with a field of 32!
That simply never seemed to be enough, at least not after that first one.
Once simply wasn’t enough
There seemed to be little recognition of how hard it is to simply GET to the NFL’s Final Four, let alone what it might take to beat the other three very successful clubs in the Lombardi Tournament. Perhaps that was the result of Andy Reid’s phenomenally quick success in reaching the NFC Championship (2001) in only his third season as Head Coach.
I cannot recall ever hearing that only a World Series Championship or a Stanley Cup would qualify as a “successful season” for the Phillies or Flyers. Would Reid’s star retained its luster longer had his Eagles’ success been built slower – over say 6-8 seasons – as opposed to an NFC Championship Game in just three?
But I digress …
No, thank you …
When Andy Reid was hired in 1999 by new owner Jeffrey Lurie, the Eagles were coming off 3-13 and 6-9-1 seasons under Ray Rhodes. Before Rhodes the head coach position had been held by Rich Kotite and Buddy Ryan. All three had coached to varying levels of very limited success accompanied by frustrating failure. The only playoff showing among those three coaches had occurred in 1988, under Buddy Ryan, when the season ended in abject depression with a loss to the Chicago Bears in the game still known as The Fog Bowl.
Before the 2001 season, Philadelphia Eagles fans had to travel all the way back to the Dick Vermiel years (1976-1982) to scrounge up the last memory of playoff success with the 1980 Superbowl loss to the Oakland Raiders.
God, no …
Andy Reid, hired “off the board” as a Quarterbacks Coach under the tutelage of Mike Holmgren with the Green Bay Packers, was able to change most of that depressing history. He impressed Jeff Laurie and Joe Banner with his binders full of detailed blueprints for the short-term revival of a lost football franchise. In the end he completed the transformation of the Philadelphia Eagles into franchise that elicited talk of The Gold Standard. Yet Reid could never quite get over the Lombardi Hump and bring Philadelphia an NFL Championship.
Just shoot me!
But the fact is he did an amazing job in a very, very short period of Football Time! Not only did he get the Eagles into the NFC Championship in just his third year, he completely altered the Philadelphia NFL experience. He made the Eagles FUN to watch.
His early drafts brought in many of The Right Kind of players … from taking a 3rd round chance on an undersized, local product with a questionable knee-injury in Brian Westbrook (Villanova) to grabbing cornerbacks Lito Sheppard and Sheldon Brown in that same 2003 draft, and yes, even the drafting of Donovan McNabb, the quarterback the Philadelphia Eagles needed at the time.
The 1999 drafting of Donovan McNabb was a development over which Reid was initially criticized, as anyone familiar with Eagles history will surely remember. When the talk radio yahoos clamored for the drafting of running back, Ricky Williams engineered that New York Draft Day debacle of “Eagles fans” booing the team’s first round decision to forego the University of Texas running back, Reid stuck to his plan and selected the quarterback he knew the Eagles needed.
The infamous boos were actually for the decision not to take Williams, not the drafting of McNabb!
The dopes booed the pick, not the man.
McNabb was taken second overall behind QB Tim McCouch (Yes, the correct response is “Who?!?”), and before QB Akili Smith (“Who?!?” again, no doubt!).
The coveted Ricky Williams was not taken until the fifth overall pick by New Orleans Saints; was traded to the Miami Dolphins in 2002 after two 1000-yard rushing seasons; and was – by 2004 – retiring temporarily after several failed drug tests and diagnoses of depression and social anxiety disorder.
Yet you rarely heard those very people giving Andy Reid credit for taking the best player that fit the Philadelphia Eagles needs at that time, even if McNabb also proved unable to bring the Vince Lombardi Trophy to an NFL Championship-starved city.
And sure, there were enough Freddie Mitchell, Jerome McDougles and Matt McCoys in there as well; but every NFL draft is a mix of Can’t Misses and Hopeful Prayers. Yet Reid’s early drafts were composed of many more successes than failures in the premium “money rounds” that enabled the team to compete at a high level from 2001 through 2010 (off years: 2005, 2007).
The possibilities are enough to make this Eagles fan cry.
You had to live the late 1960s, 1970s and 1990s to develop a true appreciation for a Head Coach/General Manager who can think and chew gum at the same time. Those have been few and far between for Philadelphia Eagles fans!
These experiences – growing up with football futility in northeast Philadelphia – probably goes a long way towards explaining my advanced Sports Anxiety at the prospects of another potential period of Head Coach Experimentation.
So it will be interesting to see how all the Andy Reid critics will react should their beloved Eagles spend the next several seasons wandering aimlessly in the NFL desert, going through head coaches like the late Al Davis and his Oakland Raiders. Hopefully it won’t come to that. But if it does, part of me will be smirking; reminding all those haters about The Reid Years; and checking out Andy Reid’s new team, as he surely won’t last very long on the open market.
Dick Vermeil
So where will Andy Reid settle in the pantheon of Eagles coaches? Certainly, he will never be considered “The Best”, if NFL Championships are the only measure. Greasy Neale (a football name if ever there was one) won back-to-back pre-Superbowl NFL Championships in 1948 and ’49.
Here are the highlights from Andy Reid’s Eagles reign:
Regular season record 129-89-1 (only 10-9 in playoff games)
NFC East Division Champion 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2006, 2010
NFC Championship 2004
Coach of the Year 2000, 2002 (Maxwell, Sporting News, Associated Press)
The most interesting discussion will revolve around Dick Vermeil-Andy Reid comparisons. Vermeil – like Reid – achieved a Superbowl berth only once, but he never enjoyed the run of playoff successes that Reid did. Some will undoubtedly give the nod to Vermeil, citing Reid’s four failed NFC Championship appearances as testament to Reid’s poor in-game management. One could argue that Vermeil might have pulled off more than one success out of those five Conference title games; then again Vermeil only managed to get there once himself during his Eagles tenure.
For me, the list will read NFL Hall-of-Fame member Greasy Neale, Andy Reid, Dick Vermeil, Buck Shaw (1960 NFL Championship, but only three seasons with the Eagles) and a whole lot of frustration.
But this is perhaps the only context in which I will freely admit I have no desire to relive the ’70s!
Gregory Stuart Dobbs, former Philadelphia Phillies and current Miami Marlin should keep an eye on his mailbox over the next couple of weeks. He will undoubtedly find an unpleasant surprise awaiting him. But before I get into that …
I am proud to announce the end of a personal drought that has run for roughly 48 years! It began when I was about 8. (Might have been 6. It was a LONG time ago …)
That’s when I attended my first Philadelphia Phillies game at venerable Connie Mack Stadium! In all those years, I had NEVER caught a batted ball during game play … or during batting practice … or even as a casual flip by a player into the stands.
You get my drift. Never the chance to smell the processed leather scent of a new ball, to feel the slightly raised stitches or the slick whiteness of the MLB sphere. There was a hole in life … a small hole, but nonetheless …
Connie Mack Stadium: Where it all began
It’s one of those silly things guys who like their sports, who adore the Game of Baseball, are driven to “accomplish”. Just one of those experiences you want to check off the Minor Bucket List.
Most of us pursue our quarry willy-nilly on those occasions when we go to a ballgame and get the chance to sit in The Good Seats … in just the right place in the stadium where the fouls balls will most assuredly fall like manna from the heavens throughout the entire game. Those of us who cherish this quest will deliberately study potential ball flight paths, homeplate proximity, and immediately calculate the odds of a catch as soon as we get to our seats.
Yes, we are a sorry breed.
My personal drought ended on a Saturday evening, June 23, 2012 in the fourth inning of a game at Citizens Bank Park between the hometown Phils and the Tampa Bay Rays.
The Catch will forever go down in Family Lore as a diving, one-hand snag of a screaming line drive into the seats. At least that will be the story I plan to pass down to every one of my grandchildren … eventually. I will have to redefine the meaning of “catch” to include “gaining possession of an object that’s barely moving”. And I might throw in a small child or grandmother saved from a potential cataclysmic head injury.
Me and my elusive quarry, finally captured
But today will be the only time the true story will be told. But first back to my potential lawsuit against Greg Dobbs …
Since the World Championship season of 2008, we have held good ball-potential seats. Section 135 at Citizens Bank Park, just behind third base, halfway down the left field line, 21 rows from the field. We’ve had our share of close calls, including one in 2009 off the bat of the soon-to-be-lighter-in-the-wallet Gregory Stuart Dobbs.
In a game which has faded from memory, Mr. Dobbs assaulted us in our Section 135 seats. His weapon was a screaming line drive foul ball.
As soon as I saw it off the bat, I said to no one in particular, “Uh oh!” (no, not one of my more eloquent observations) The round missile was traveling at roughly the speed of sound and right at my bride’s delicate noggin.
To this day, she insists she would have caught it, had I not stuck my mitt-less mitt in front of her face. But by my calculation, she would still be in a head cast, sipping dinner through a straw.
So I did the gentlemanly thing and knocked her out of the way – gently … kinda – and bravely stuck my hand out to protect my woman … and of course, to see if I could grab that elusive sphere. When the dust settled, the ball was in the possession of a regular Section 135 resident who sits right behind us; I had a knot the size of Placido Polanco’s head growing on my thumb; and the spousal unit was in a tiff because I ruined HER CHANCE to catch one in the teeth!
For years I have lived with the humiliation of missing that Impossible Catch, the shame of ruining Carol’s “big chance” at a Grade III concussion, and the taunts of a coworker who sits a row ahead of us on the same 17-game ticket plan.
The torment finally ended that Saturday night!
Future Hall-of-Fame shortstop, Elliot Johnson (OK, so he’s off to a slow start.) swung at a Kyle Kendrick offering as I sat next to Carol and sipped my chosen adult beverage, a Flying Fish Extra Pale Ale.
As the ball arced tightly toward the population of Section 135, I received a mental text message from that compartment of the brain in charge of Semi-Athletic Endeavors … PUT THE BEER DOWN. As I complied, I thought “Why am I bothering? That ball’s not getting here.”
Sure enough the ball hits three rows ahead of us and about 6 seats to our right. I had stood up just before the ball hit flailing flesh, keenly abiding the next two intra-brain text messages … STAND UP, STUPID and LOOK FOR A REBOUND …
Several people lunged for the possession prized by so many, though it means so little. The ball got through outstretched arms and struck the back of a seat a row or two in front of us, still off to our right.
As I searched for a ricochet, I was stunned to see the ball bounding down our row; seat-back high, clanking off grabbing hands, bouncing off cowering women folk. It struck someone or something and plopped into a seat a row in front and just to the right of my Android-distracted spousal unit. (Later, she would insist she would have had the ball had she not been playing with her phone. Well, at least this time she wouldn’t have needed all that dental work.)
Since I was obediently standing up already, I was in the perfect position to plunge down and grab the valueless trinket. Yet for some reason, I waited for the next rather frantic, emotion-filled brain text that screamed GET IT, YA DOPE!!!
As I swooped down (dismiss all pre-existing concepts of what “swooping” looks like), another gentleman equidistant from the seat on the other side of Carol also lunged down and flailed at the elusive prize. My cat-like movements (consisting of me clawing at the still bouncing ball like a large, slow-moving cat) simply knocked the ball around the seat some more, as I and my competition continued to swat and grab. Finally, I cornered the ball and plucked it from the seat!
I rose triumphant and exhilarated! Displaying my trophy for all The World to see, including that smart ass from work who predicted I would NEVER get my first in-game ball! I was King of the World!
Then Kendrick threw another pitch, and I was just a middle-aged doofus making too much out of corralling a worthless, slightly used baseball.
And that leads me back to Gregory Stuart Dobbs.
I heard that Elizabeth Lloyd and her husband are suing an 11-year-old Little League player in Manchester Township, NJ for $300,000 after allegedly plunking her in the face with a baseball … that might have been traveling 10 miles an hour … while she sat completely oblivious to what was going on around her at a baseball game with pre-teens swinging metal bats and throwing rock hard objects.
I don’t really buy this – that you can hold an 11-year-old accountable for your own lack of attention – but it was inspiring on a much higher financial level! Afterall, if Ms. Lloyd is successful, imagine what I could get from a grown man and well-paid ballplayer – Mr. Dobbs – who was “engaging in inappropriate physical and/or sporting activity” in the presence of 45,000 people!!
In addition, I also lost the “services, society and consortium” of my wife. This was the indisputable result of my thumb injury, which prevented me from completing my “move”, as I prefer The Pinch over The Swirl. For weeks I was reduced to using The Knuckle. It was HORRIBLE! The loss was devastating, insufferable, humiliating, and completely fabricated.
But hey, get me a good lawyer, and I could make take me a fortune!
When you see Simmonds pumping along the boards, working to get up a full head of steam down the ice, all you see are elbows, arms, and knees each appearing to be headed in different directions. It looks – quite frankly – about what you would expect if I was ice skating … for the very first time … being chased by a polar bear.
In addition, Simmonds is unhesitating when it comes to defending himself or his teammates with his fists … the self-policing part of hockey that provides an outlet in those instances when players take physical liberties within the gray areas of the game and its rules.
What has been promising this season is the play of Jakub Voracek and Simmonds, along with the emergence of a focused, earth-bound Ilya Bryzgalov, who may have finally answered the Flyers perennial goalie crisis.
This literary audible on the famous words of renown football commentator, 
Cranky Man's Lawn 