Your 1990 Fantasy Football Preview

A few months ago, I was cruising the Compton Public Library (because that's how I roll), when I purchased a couple of literary gems for 25 cents each from their book sale. I'll get to the second one at another time, but for now I want to take you back to 1990, when fantasy football was scoffed at by most respectable people and left to the hardcore sports nerds. And if you wanted to get information to prepare you for your upcoming fantasy season, there was Internet for you to turn to with their pages of Big Boards, and you sure as shooting couldn't just head down to your local magazine rack to find a half-dozen in-depth preview magazines.

No, you had to track down books written by the early fantasy experts. These men were no Matthew Berry come latelies. These were the Wild West days of fantasy sports prognostication. The people who did devote themselves full-time to these endeavors were rugged individualists, blazing a new trail for lonely, obsessed sports fans everywhere. With nothing but steely determination, a bottle of rye and a stack of statistics the size of the US budget, these men lived rough lives, all in order to bring a very small percentage of the population their fantasy sports news. These were groundbreaking, risk-taking men. Men like...Cliff Charpentier.



Yup. Your "leading" fantasy football expert in 1990 was, in all likelihood, some sort of French-Canadian. As my partner McLane noted, that would explain the New Orleans Saint on the cover - he probably had a requirement to place a Saint on the cover every year, because of the deep, ethnic ties between the Quebecois and the Cajuns. (Alternate 1990 cover boy: Bobby Hebert!) You have every right to be skeptical of any fantasy football guide written by Cliff Charpentier, unless it's a CFL guide. I bet Cliff Charpentier was all over the Montreal Alouettes in 1990.

The first thing you'll notice is the cover boy, the "1989 Fantasy Player of the Year" - Saints RB Dalton Hilliard. Which blew me away - he was the 1989 version of Ladanlian Tomlinson? It seems ludicrous. But looking at his 1989 numbers, and they are pretty amazing: 1,776 total rushing and receiving yards and 18 total touchdowns. That's pretty impressive stuff, especially for someone on the freakin' Saints in 1989.

The back cover promises to answer many burning questions that fantasy players will have heading into the 1990 NFL season, including "Can Hilliard repeat his Saintly 1989 performance?" Allow me to answer that one for you: no. How does 409 total yards and one lousy touchdown strike you. All this for some that the esteemed Mr. Charpentier ranked as the No. 4 RB available in 1990.

Or No. 7, depending on which list you believe. Because way back in 1990 (a time when people still listened to, if you can believe this, cassette tapes!), there wasn't one method of scoring fantasy sports like we have now. Instead, French Charpentier listed rankings for the three most popular methods:

• The Basic Scoring Method: players earn points for how many points they score during a game (six for a TD, three for a field goal, etc.) with no consideration for yardage gained.
• The Performance Point Method: players earn points for yardage gained (one point for 20 yards rushing/receiving or 50 yards passing) with no consideration for points scored.
• The Distance Scoring Method: some sort of Byzantine method of scoring which involves calculating points based on the yardage gained by each player for each scoring play. Even mathematicians at MIT are stumped by this method.

What we use today is a basic combination of the first two methods (the third one clearly having been created by French-Canadians set on secretly introducing the Metric system to unsuspecting NFL fans). Again, it blows my mind that even though it was all the way back in 1990 (when people only had 30 or 35 different cable channels - imagine!) no one had thought to combine the two methods. Or, that at least no one had informed Charpentier if they did. I honestly don't know - I was 14 at the time, and the only fantasy anything I did involved me locking myself in the bathroom with a stolen copy of my brother's Hustler magazines.

So how did the missing Fabulous Rougeau do with his 1990 selections. Let's take a look with the help of hindsight (and Pro Football Reference). I've averaged the rankings he had for the Basic Scoring and Performance Point Methods to get a sense of where he would rank them in today's, modern scoring method.

Top 5 Running Backs:

1. Neal Anderson, Chicago Bears: After having gained 1,051, 1,477 and 1,709 yards over the past three seasons, Charpentier sees this climb "continuing as he remains the Bears' primary offensive weapon." And he had a very good year: 1,562 total yards and 13 TDs, both in the Top 5 in the NFL. Which makes you wonder if the Bears could convince Neal Anderson to come out of retirement - even today he'd be an upgrade over the slabs of meat they have running the ball.
2. Barry Sanders, Detroit Lions: He was the 1989 Fantasy Rookie of the Year, and Charpentier boldy predicted that there was "no lid for his 1990 fantasy potential". No kidding. How about 1784 yards from scrimmage and an NFL-leading 16 touchdowns? Not bad for a second-year player.
   
3. Eric Dickerson, Indianapolis Colts: Charpentier was willing to bet that Dickerson would rebound from the hamstring injury that "limited" him to 1,522 yards and eight touchdowns in 1989. Big mistake. Injuries weren't the problem in 1990 - it was attitude. He and the Colts engaged in a drawn-out, stupid feud that would led to him missing the first seven games and essentially killing his career. 769 yards and four TDs equals Frenchy Fuqua's first major gaffe.
4. Dalton Hilliard, New Orleans Saints: As mentioned earlier, flame out city. Reuben Mays returned healthy in 1990 from the injuries that cost him the previous season, and Dalton HIlliard went back to being a reserve.
5. Christian Okoye, Kansas City Chiefs: The "Nigerian Nightmare" was a nightmare for fantasy owners, with knee injuries limited his production in 1990 to 828 yards and seven TDs, down from 1,492 yards and 12 TDs a year before. This was also the season that Steve Atwater destroyed him on a Monday Night game with a hit that basically made Atwater's reputation as the game's pre-eminent heavy hitter and drove Okoye all the way to whatever the hell that Pirate Master TV show he did a few years ago.

Also of note: The leader in yards from scrimmage in 1990 was Thurman Thomas of the Bills, who also scored 13 TDs. Where did Charpentier rank him? Eighth, right behind Greg Bell and his 151 yards and one TD. Some fantasy owner made that call in the first round to take Bell over Thomas and was royally pissed.

Next time, we'll see how well our French friend did picking the QBs. Hint: Don Majkowski is in the Top 5. This is not a good sign.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 5:17 PM 1 comments  

Meet the new Shark, same as the old Shark

Was there anything in sports this year as anti-climactic, yet as thoroughly expected as seeing Greg Norman throw up all over himself, bogey the first three holes of the final round of the British Open, and then fall gently into the night as Padraig Harrington took control by actually - gasp - shooting one-under for the round as everyone else was imploding left and right. It's almost as if he made some sort of deal with the Devil:

"Sure, you want one more chance to compete at the majors, just like you did 15 years ago? No problem, Greg. It will be just like it was for you at the majors back then. I promise..."

And just like it was in 1996 at the Masters, Greg Norman...well, I hate to use the word "choke", since maybe it's honestly asking too much to expect a 53 year-old to not fall apart after four brutal days of competition. But the collapse in the first few holes weren't just missed shots - they were complete mental breakdowns. It's one thing to decide "what the hell, I'm not even supposed to be near this leaderboard - might as well play loose and have fun." It's another thing to continue to spray the ball all over the rough with your driver when there's no damned good reason for it. Tom Watson (who knows something about working your way around links courses) sounded like he was about ready to come down from the ABC tower and wrap that fucking driver around Norman's neck every time he made an ill-advised choice to play driver when a long iron would have done just fine.

Still, lost in all of this is, you know, the guy who won the tournament? The same guy who won it last year? The same guy who didn't know until Thursday morning if his injured wrist would let him grip the club at all, much less play at a championship level? Yeah, Padraig Harrington. If Tiger Woods won a major dealing with a potential serious injury, wouldn't the media be making a much bigger deal out it than they did with Harrington's wi...

Never mind.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 12:51 AM 2 comments  

Oscar Diaz update, and it isn't good news

According to ESPN.com, Oscar Diaz is unconscious and breathing with the assistance of a ventilator following surgery to reduce swelling in his brain following his collapse in his corner between the 10th and 11th rounds of his fight on ESPN2's Wednesday Night Fights against Delvin Rodriguez.

As I mentioned earlier, I was watching this fight as it all happened, having chosen to devote my viewing attention to this rather than the sideshow that James Toney vs. Hasim Rahman inevitably had to be (and was). This was a tough, competitive fight between two guys desperately trying to remain in the hunt for a title shot - Diaz had almost ended the fight in the 4th round with a crushing right hand that almost lifted Rodriguez off the floor, Rocky-style, but somehow Rodriguez avoided going down. From there, Rodriguez had used a steady diet of stiff jabs a straight rights to seize control of the fight. In fact, Diaz's right eye had steadily closed during the fight to the point that it was nothing more than a slit with a giant mouse underneath it by the 10th round. Still, he looked fresh at the end of the round and for all the world like he still had a chance to land a solid punch and turn the fight around.

In talking to my wife about this after the fight, she mentioned that this was precisely the reason she doesn't watch boxing, although she can watch MMA - the damage that is caused by taking shot after shot in a long, tough fight like this versus the more spectacular (but far less dangerous long-term) one-punch KOs in MMA. Her point was that what makes a "great" fight - two evenly matched fighters who trade big shots back and forth for a long period of rounds - is also what is most likely to lead to significant damage, either short-term (like tonight) or long-term.

I didn't really have any response to offer in boxing's behalf. Mainly I was too busy feeling a little sick to my stomach, thinking back to the live shots I watched of the paramedics swooping in on him and administering emergency medical techniques on him before the cameras cut away. Nights like tonight make me wonder if I have a screw loose for being a boxing fan.

On a side note: I watched SportsCenter, ESPN News and the various ESPN tickers for several hours after the fight, assuming that somewhere they would have some mention of the fight and an update on Diaz's condition. And...nothing. If ESPN is going to broadcast the fight, then they have an obligation to keep their audience informed about Diaz's condition during the night. Even saying something to the effect of "Diaz was taken to a local hospital; his condition is currently unknown" would have at least been acknowledgment of the severity of the situation. But I guess that we wouldn't have room for our 85th Brett Favre update of the night if we made time (or space on the ticker) for that...

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 11:53 PM 4 comments  

A bad scene for Oscar Diaz

As I type this, welterweight Oscar Diaz is being carried out of the ring on a stretcher after collapsing between the 10th and 11th rounds of a brutal fight with Delvin Rodriguez on ESPN2's Wednesday Night Fights. They played the footage and audio of Diaz, whose right eye had closed from constant punishment, staggering around like a drunken sailor before mumbling and collapsing to the ring ropes. It's truly one of the most frightening things I've ever seen.

I have a bad feeling in my stomach right now.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 9:21 PM 0 comments  

NFL is pretty sure Peyton Manning is a Crip

NEW YORK - NFL officials, reviewing past game film for the possible use of gang signs by players, today announced that they are pretty sure that they saw Peyton Manning flash a sign of allegiance to the Kitchen Crips, a powerful gang in South Central Los Angeles, during a game last year against the Cleveland Browns. But at the same time, they conceded that he might have just been signaling for an audible.

"During the third quarter, Manning made a hand motion that is similar to the symbol for the Kitchen Crips," said NFL vice president of security Milt Ahlerich. "Then again, we were watching the game from a CBS tape that was not HD, so it was kind of hard to tell. He might have been telling Dallas Clark to run a hot route. It's kind of hard to say."

Reached at his Indianapolis home, Manning laughed off of suggestion that he was a member of the Kitchen Crips.

"Me, a member of the Crips?" Manning said. "That's crazy - I really have heard everything. No, I'm not a member of the Crips, and I never would be."

Manning proceeded to end the brief interview by stabbing the reporter to death and carving "MS 13" into his chest, a mark of the Mara Salvatrucha gang from Central America.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 3:30 PM 0 comments  

Cynical days

I guess this is a sign of how bitter and cynical I've become as a sports fan: as I'm sitting at home watching Josh Hamilton put on his ferocious display of power last night at the Home Run Derby, my first thought wasn't about what a great bit of personal redemption this was, or even the more primal "Wow, he hits the ball hard." My first gut instinct was this:

"Boy, this is sure going to suck when we find out in two years that he's been using HGH."

Now, keep in mind that I have no reason to suspect that Josh Hamilton has been using performance-enhancing drugs of any kind (other than his past history with drug drugs, I suppose). But, let's face it, it's hard for me to get too excited about this.

Why?

Rick Ankiel. Mark McGwire. Barry Bonds. Floyd Landis. Marion Jones. And on and on.

And that's a shame, but Hamilton does have a great story - for anyone who has had a friend or family member deal with substance abuse (that is to say, basically everyone), it's heartening to see someone come back from the edge, so to speak. And you'd like to think that someone with Hamilton's past would want to make it on his terms, free of any performance-enhancing substances.

But this is what being a sports fan in 2008 is: waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was like me watching USC basketball last season, and just waiting for the phrase "OJ Mayo" and "NCAA investigation" to pop up in a story at some point. It's the perpetual tension in your shoulders because you can never just relax and enjoy what's happening. Unfortunately, this is the legacy of the Mitchell Report and the myriad of steroid scandals.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 10:11 AM 1 comments  

Dear Bret Favre

Stop it! Seriously, fucking stop it! I've been laid up in bed dealing with the effects of a bad reaction to a tetanus shot (don't ask), and this is all I've heard or seen. So stop it and just go away! Now all of my friends and family are calling me and asking my opinion about you, like I care. And I don't. No one outside of Green Bay wants to see you play next year, and even they are getting at the end of their ropes. You're turning into the NFL's Roger Clemens, except replace "HGH" with "painkillers". Just leave! Go! Shoo! Shoo!

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 11:09 AM 1 comments  

Kenyan distance runners make sprint champ feel inadequate

NAIROBI - Sitting in the locker room, Paul Ochuka should have been thrilled - he had just qualified for the 2008 Beijing Olympics by winning the 100 meter dash at the Kenyan Olympic Trials. But all he says he felt was shame and embarrassment thanks to repeated, spirit-crushing teasing by Kenya's contingent of elite distance runners.

"When I got back to my locker, there was a note attached to it," Ochuka said. "I was hoping it was going to be a congratulatory note, but I should have known better. It simply said "Way to run a whole 100 meters, pussy.' It was unsigned, but I have a good idea about who did it."

Ochuka said that the constant teasing and hazing have only heightened a gnawing feeling of what he calls "inadequacy" over the relative short distances he runs versus the long distances that Kenya's more famous track athletes run.

"Everyone says 'Oh, why should we care if you can run 100 meters in 10 seconds - try running for 10,000 meters and then we can talk'," he said. "No one cares about being The Fastest Man in Kenya, just The Man in Kenya Who Can Run a Very Long Distance the Fastest."

Ochuka added that Kenyan track and field officials have not helped the cause, giving little priority to sprint races. For example, the finals of the 100 meter dash at the Olympic Trials were held in between laps of the 5,000 meter quarterfinals, with sprinters asked to come onto the front stretch, run, and head back to pick up their starting blocks before the distance runners finished their lap.

Kenyan Track & Field Federation president Martin Oboye refused to comment, since he "could not believe" that Kenya actually had sprinters.

Despite the lack of support from other track athletes and fans in Kenya, Ochuka said he was proud to be able to represent his country in the Olympics by marching into Beijing's Olympic stadium with his fellow athletes.

"Unless they do what they did at the African Games," he said, referring to the prank where the team parked their bus 10 miles away from the stadium and ran there. "I'm not running that far again - this time I'll take the bus or something."

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 11:14 AM 1 comments  

Quick hits

• I guess Spain can't win at every sporting event: Bulls 18, Spaniards (and assorted tourists) 0
• Oh, it's OK, ex-Viking Darrion Scott wasn't trying to kill his two year-old son by putting a plastic bag over his head - he was just playing "Boogeyman" with him. Surprisingly, the boy's mom did not find this so assuming.
• Remember the Tour de France? Know what's crazy - they're still having it! In fact, it's going on right now - some German guy is leading it or something.
• Serious news alert: Rich Harden traded by the A's with Chad Gaudin to the Cubs for various cans of corn.
  

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 3:50 PM 0 comments  

Statuatory thinking: Ideas for alternative baseball stadium statues

Yesterday the Los Angeles Times ran an interesting story about statues at baseball stadiums (not the kind found on the field, like Miguel Cabrera). The story talked about why statues are a perfect match to commemorate great players, and listed screw-ups real (only the Cubs would have a typo on their statue) and not (yes, Babe Ruth was a lefty, and yes the statue in Baltimore shows him with a righty catcher's mitt, but that is actually historically accurate - catcher's mitts were all righty at that time).

A sidebar story talked about the fact that there are no statues at Dodger Stadium, and the possibility that one or more might be added. They spoke with Howard Cole of BaseballSavvy.com site, who has been pushing for a statue of Sandy Koufax to go up at Dodger Stadium for years. And while I have nothing but respect for Sandy Koufax, he somehow isn't "iconic" enough for me. Because more than anything else, a statue should symbolize something - it is the physical embodiment of what you think of when you think of someone or something.

So I started to ask myself what the perfect statue would be to represent the Los Angeles Dodgers at Dodger Stadium. If I just closed my eyes and thought "Los Angeles Dodgers", what immediate associations did I have.

A few ideas came to mind:

• Steve Garvey surrounded by children - dozens and dozens of children
• A fan in a Raiders hat and Dodgers jersey pouring beer on a 6 year-old wearing a Giants hat
• Jackie Robinson in Heaven, watching Al Campanis on God's TV and weeping
• Fred Claire giving Pedro Martinez a handshake and a plane ticket to Montreal

But the one thing that symbolized the Dodgers, more than anything else, would be this: Tommy Lasorda, naked except for a towel barely covering his sweaty midsection, at the post-game buffet filling his plate with mounds of linguini while screaming profanities at the clubhouse boys. It's a mental image I picked up while reading John Feinstein's "Play Ball" several years ago, and no amount of therapy has been able to scrub it from my memory. (Perhaps a more accurate statue would have two sides - one with Lasorda smiling and hugging kids, while the other had him foaming at the mouth about Dave Kingman - but I disgress.)

The whole exercise got me thinking about what statues should be outside of other stadiums. Not even Rodan's "Thinker", Michaelangelo's "David" or John Heisman's "Trophy" will have the power to move people that these monuments will have:

Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim: Although it would be relevant to recognize today's fans with a statue of a family holding a map of Los Angeles with a look of great confusion while trying to find Angels Stadium, nothing symbolizes the majority of the team's history more eloquently than a bronze statue of Donnie Moore holding a shotgun.

St. Louis Cardinals: Although a giant bottle of andro would be a perfect symbol for the Mark McGwire era, and a bust of Tony Larussa's bleary, drunken eyes from his mug shot would have quiet dignity, nothing would be more appropriate than a statue of the Cardinal's greatest base stealer, Vince Coleman. Of course, in order to ensure that no rusting or other damage would occur from rain, the statue would need to be mangled under a tarp at all times. (Note: I really like the idea of all toilets having a statue of Joaquin Andujar behind them smashing it to bits with a baseball bat, but this might not be doable.)

Baltimore Orioles: My first thought was to have Tony Tarasco frozen in time, pointing up to Jeffrey Maier and appealing to Richie Phillips for the interference call that never came, a more fitting tribute to the "Spend a Lot, Win Little" Orioles is the Eternal Money Flame, a giant dollar sign similar to an Olympic torch, except that it is perpetually fed by $100 bills.

Boston Red Sox: A statue of Wade Boggs passed out in a plane seat covered in dozens of empty beer cans and fried chicken legs is a great visual. And nothing would summarize the prickly nature of the greatest player ever to wear a Red Sox jersey than an action statue of Ted Williams clocking a reporter. But to my mind, the choice has to be of Curt Schilling, meticulously applying a paint brush to his sock before Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS. After all, the team's name is "The Red Sox" and it's also Schilling's only chance to be immortalized in such a way - it's not like he's getting a bust at Cooperstown. Plus, you could probably save on upkeep as he would almost certainly be there to polish and clean the statue every day to make sure it received maximum attention.

New York Yankees: They have enough statues, thanks. But if we have to create a new one for them, let it be Billy Martin snapping his own pitcher's (Ed Whitson) arm in a bar fight.

Toronto Blue Jays: I haven't worked out how you would make a statue of that couple "enjoying themselves carnally" in the hotel room in centerfield at the SkyDome with the windows open during a game (some sort of diorama?). So the choice here is former manager Tim Johnson, carrying three of his fallen comrades on his back to safety while single-handedly killing a dozen Viet Cong during his heroic tour of duty that he did in his mind.

Chicago White Sox: This is a tough one: a bunch of hippies blowing up Donna Summer records, or Ozzie Guillen strangling Jay Marrioti? Let's go a different route and celebrate something amazing - the game the White Sox played in shorts. Nothing says "immortal tribute" like Jim Spencer in short shorts, exposing his marble-white thighs while stretching for a ball a first.

Cleveland Indians: This really should be a series of statues paying tribute to Albert Belle placed throughout the stadium. Scenes include: him driving a car and running over trick-or treaters (placed in the parking lot); him heaving a ball into the chest of a heckler (located in foul territory in left) and his teammates retrieving and him glaring at a reporter with murderous hate (placed in the locker room).

Tampa Bay Rays: Simply put - Rocco Baldelli being wheeled into an MRI machine.

Detroit Tigers: I like the idea of a statue of Denny McLain arm in arm with several Italian "made men". However, I love the idea of a statue in the stands featuring Ty Cobb wailing away on a guy with no arms.

Kansas City Royals: Again, I'm torn - George Brett foaming at the mouth when flying out of the dugout during The Pine Tar Incident, or George Brett on the crapper with a tube of Preparation H in his hand? You can't go wrong either way, although I also insist on a statue of Bob Hamelin leaving the stadium in his uniform at the main exitway.

Oakland Athletics: Another easy one - Jose Canseco sticking a needle into Mark McGwire's ass while Tony Larussa looks off in the distance.

Seattle Mariners: I would go with the Mariner Moose writhing on the ground in rollerblades clutching his broken ankle, but I hate to honor mascots. Instead, let's honor a real American hero - let's have a statue of Jay Buhner vomiting on command.

Florida Marlins: A touching scene of Moises Alou, Kevin Brown and Gary Sheffield on an auction block going to the highest bidder.

New York Mets: A tribute to the 1986 World Series winners, featuring Darryl Strawberry and Doc Gooden playfully skiing down a mountain of blow.

Philadelphia Phillies: The Lenny Dykstra Commemorative Tobacco Juice Spit Fountain.

Chicago Cubs: Having an image of Moises Alou screaming and pointing at a dopey-looking Steve Bartman just seems mean. Instead, it's time to honor a legend: Harry Carey shirtless and face down in a pool of his own vomit, clutching a Bud in one hand and a hot dog in the other.

Arizona Diamondbacks: Time to immortalize the defining moment in a legendary pitcher's career: Randy Johnson plunking a wayward dove with a fastball, causing it to explode in an orgy of feathers.

Colorado Rockies: The new team is great, but let's not forget the legends who built the franchise. I'd like to see a lifesize statue of Vinny Castilla (Note: the immense size and weight of this statue would require massive reinforcement of the concrete below in order to avoid the statue falling into a massive sinkhole from which only Brendan Fraser can escape.)

Pittsburgh Pirates: It would be fitting but almost impossible to depict Barry Bonds and Bobby Bonilla glumly cleaning out their lockers after another playoff loss. Instead, put up a statue of Jason Kendall running a stride after first base on his ankle with the sole of his foot staring up at him. (Note: vomit bags should be made available.)

San Diego Padres: You could have Tony Gwynn getting his 3,000th hit in a Segway because he's too fat to actually get to first, but I actually don't think that's historically accurate. Instead, it's time to honor the team's lone NL MVP - Ken Caminitti "heroically" fighting off "flu-like symptoms" by coming to bat with an IV in his arm, a beer can attached to straws on his helmet and all manner of needles still in his butt.

San Francisco Giants: Yes, a lifesize bust of Barry Bonds would be great. But in order to make that fit in the stadium, you'd have to remove the giant mitt in center field, or drain McCovey's Cove. But I think all Giants fans would agree that honoring the greatest moment in the team's rivalry with the Dodgers would be perfect: an animatronic version of Juan Marichal cracking a bat over Johnny Roseboro's head, over and over.

Posted by The Duke of Everything at 10:26 AM 3 comments