Sports

There is no one in sports more annoying than Patrick Roy, goaltender for the Colorado Avalanche–primarily because he has been anointed by the national media as the best money goalie in the NHL. This year, in Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals, Stars goalie Eddie Belfour proved that it was he, not Roy, who was the best when a series was on the line, beating Roy 3-2 (just as Belfour’s team beat Roy’s in Game 7 during last year’s playoffs 4-1). Before this year’s series began, Belfour made what to the East Coast media idiots was a startling proclamation: He said that he was as good a goalie as Roy. (A true statement if ever an athlete uttered one: Belfour not only was the defending Stanley Cup champion goaltender, but also had arguably his best regular season ever. His .919 save percentage was a career best, even though he faced about 200 more shots than the year before.) Ten minutes before Game 7 was over, the Reunion Arena fans began a chant that signaled they too agreed with Belfour’s assessment of himself: “Ed-die’s bet-ter…Ed-die’s bet-ter.” It was a wonderful f-you directed toward the overrated, head-bobbing Roy (who has now lost four straight Game 7s and allowed 16 goals in those games), and a nice public appreciation of the Stars’ best clutch player.

We were rookies when we walked in, pros when we rolled out–or so it felt, with our nifty Specialized Expedition between our legs, our Bell helmet on our head, and our stylin’ Fat Tire jersey over our shoulders. The last time we were on a bike was in 1982, back when Mom and Dad brought home that new Schwinn that long ago was reduced to bent, bruised metal after a nasty head-on with a car one night–enough to turn anyone away from biking for at least a little while. But two months after walking into the Richardson Bike Mart, looking for the instrument that was to be our salvation from an expanding waistline and encroaching lethargy, the place has become our home-away-from. The first day we walked in (underneath the framed Lance Armstrong jersey that hangs over the door), our salesman introduced himself (Sean Michael Dargan, whaddup?) and proceeded to introduce us to the right bike for the right build. Sean then explained that the bike had a lifetime guarantee and that the Bike Mart’s expert staff would service it regularly, for a nominal (if not nonexistent) fee. But that wasn’t the best part of the shopping adventure: That came when it was time to buy the accoutrements–the jersey and padded shorts, the gloves and helmet, the water bottle and bracket, the whole shebang that turns exercise into hobby into lifestyle. See, we like to bike–from nothing to 15 miles in two weeks, not bad if we do say so our own danged selves–but we like to look good while doing it, because that is, after all, the whole point. Uh, isn’t it?

Like other great moments in recent Dallas sports history, the best one of the year was a frozen one: Darryl Sydor, during Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals, crawling across the ice to defend his goal after he’d broken his ankle. ESPN analysts shouted in disbelief as Sydor, in obvious and tremendous pain, pulled himself across the ice with his arms, dragging his now-bum leg behind, and began throwing his hands in the air trying to deflect the puck as eventual champs New Jersey tried to score. It personified what makes hockey, and the Dallas Stars, so enthralling. Hockey at its best is a game that is at once more violent than football and more graceful than basketball, a game with an honor code that demands that hockey players not only play hurt, but play in blinding pain. Sydor’s exhibition of–pick your cliché–heart, determination, guts, whatever you want to call it– almost made losing the Stanley Cup acceptable, because fans knew that moment reflected the Stars’ effort, and the commitment fans ask of their sports stars.

It’s easy to forget what it was like watching the Dallas Stars before the Parkay-smooth Zubov arrived: panicked defensemen, rushing to move the puck up ice, either missing sticks with errant passes or turning the puck over trying to skate up ice themselves. Now, watch Zubov with the puck when he gets it in his own zone. He never hurries, making small dekes and turning to free himself and get behind the net…then, he starts up ice, gliding, juking one way then turning the other, faking out defenders easily. When he wants to make a pass, he does so perfectly, on the move, tape-to-tape. On a team committed to defense, he makes the offense go. Mike Modano gets the pub for his goal scoring and assists, and he is truly a special player. But star scorers can be neutralized by putting the other teams’ best defensive player on them, which often happens with Modano. Derian Hatcher is a force defensively, but when he is out, the Stars can cover for him with Richard Matvichuk or other big, burly defensemen. When Zubov is out, not only does the power play turn ugly–he is its “quarterback”–but so does the five-on-five game. He adds invaluable patience and finesse to the Stars’ game, and his skills, on this team, are virtually irreplaceable. Plus, he’s a Russki. That’s kinda cool.

He faded late in the year, when the strain of trying to carry a leaden team became too much, but he was still the lone standout veteran among this disappointing bunch. But before then, he was his usual bulldog self, finding ways to win games, even when he didn’t have his best stuff. (At press time, he’d won 15 games on a bad team. And yes, Ivan Rodriguez was his usual stud self this year, but he will have missed the last third or so of the season with a bum thumb.) Hell, even Helling’s best stuff isn’t that great–average fastball, a breaking ball that hangs too often–but the man just battles. It’s remarkable when you consider that he was once traded by the Rangers and that, after he returned, stubborn automaton manager Johnny Oates didn’t give him the credit he deserved until this year. Helling never let it get to him, never lashed out at the hordes that doubted him. Which makes it all the more inconceivable that Helling was booed by Rangers fans after one bad game this year. Hey, idiots, news flash: If everyone gave the effort Helling did, perhaps the Rangers wouldn’t have languished in last place for much of the year.

Yeah, none of us are students either, but if you can sneak in there (like we do), then it’s the best pick-up ball in Dallas. Here’s how you get in: Invest in an SMU T-shirt. When you walk in the doors and meet the ID checkers eye to eye, confidently say “Hey” and walk right on in like you own the place.

Speed. Dedication. Endurance. Endorsements. These are the traits of the modern Olympic athlete. Is it such a departure from the Greek tradition? After all, the word “athlete” is an ancient Greek term for “prize-seeker.” Greek athletes would be set for life if they brought back honor from the games, including lifetime pensions and immense status. Athletes could also be bought and sold, like cattle or NFL kickers. The concept of “amateur athletics” was only developed in the 19th century. Wasn’t this item supposed to be about Michael Johnson? Well, who cares? Haven’t we heard enough about him already?

A friend was once asked what he would do if he won a lottery amount that would give him more money than he could ever spend. He said, “I’d travel around the country and pay strangers to do stupid things for money.” It was a moment that foreshadowed the coming of billionaire Mavericks owner Mark Cuban, Dallas’ own Magic Christian. On the air, Cuban offered to pay Ticket radio personality Gordon Keith more than a $125K (with half of that going to charity) if he would legally change his name to Dallas Maverick for one year. Gordon agreed to do so, then reneged (a.k.a. “chickened out”), saying a name is sacred. We think that means Keith makes way too much money. Again, the offer stands: We’d change our name to Markcuban’s Bitch if he’d offer us the same deal.

It’s not uncommon for well-known people, when they get in trouble with the law, to start playing the “Do you know who I am” game. The hope is that the police officer will then recognize the movie star or athlete or politician and say, “Oh, my, I’m so sorry, sir or madam. Please continue your illegal activity unabated. And, hell, take my gun. You may find use for it.” Needless to say, that rarely works. So when Eddie Belfour was busted for assault, resisting arrest, and general crazy-ass behavior at The Mansion hotel late in the hockey season, he rightfully tried a new tactic: the straight-ahead bribe. Not just any bribe. Not some WNBA, watered-down sport-type girlie bribe, either. To forget the whole thing and undo the ‘cuffs, he offered the cops one billion dollars. Now, since the officers said he was, you know, schnockered, they took the bribe as less-than-serious. Either way, whether he had his wits about him or not, something tells us Eddie’s contract has some kinda hidden jail bonus in it if he can offer that kind of scratch.

No question, the man is a freak, a cross between Frankenstein, a frat boy, and Frankie Avalon. He says things that would make a goober shudder–like offering All-Pro asshole Bob Knight a job with the Dallas Mavericks as soon as Knight was fired from Cuban’s beloved Indiana University. Nevertheless, in the words of an ancient sea chantey, “Only a loon could save the Mavs. Arrgghh.” The Mavericks were the worst professional team in the ’90s and a recurring joke on late-night talk shows and in Reunion Arena. Cuban’s fantasy-league style may not have won the admiration of fellow owners–he throws money around like Highland Park teens at NorthPark–but he has done the seemingly impossible in making Dallas excited about basketball again. Well, as excited as a town can get with a team that includes Shawn Bradley on its roster. But what do you expect? Cuban’s just a miracle worker, not a god or something.

We’ve tried the downtown Y, the Larry North hot-bod shops, the gym-rat dives. None has satisfied us as completely as Premier. It’s got a bit of everything you’d need: great training staff, the latest in workout equipment, a pool that’s never too full to find a lane, and the latest-craze fitness classes (spinning, chisel, that yoga-stretch thing that starts with a “p”). There’s a nice mix of average-looking folks so you won’t feel embarrassed, as well as eye candy, both male and female. There’s even a celeb sighting or two possible (it’s where Dennis Rodman worked out during his brief Mavericks stint; you’ll sometimes catch Mark Cuban playing in a pick-up game; several radio dorks from The Merge Radio Project work out there; and so on). Go see and pump for yourself.

Fans will forever be upset that to acquire Finley, the Dallas Mavericks traded future Hall of Famer Jason Kidd. At the time, the trade made no sense–you don’t give up a superstar for a blossoming player. But that shouldn’t keep fans from appreciating what Finley is doing. (Because folks are quick to mock Don Nelson’s moves as general manager, signing Finley to a long-term deal three years ago also deserves props.) For starters, look at Finley’s numbers last year: more than 22 points, six rebounds, and five assists a game. Of course, that doesn’t speak to his total value to the team. He plays tenacious defense and he is intense and focused but isn’t so self-absorbed that he’s insufferable. Look for a breakout year from the All-Star, if for no other reason because look-a-like Chris Rock has been seen wearing a Finley jersey.

Surrounded by 400 rolling acres of the Las Colinas hillsides, this is hands down the best golf course in Dallas. This Tournament Players Course hosts the PGA Tour’s GTE Byron Nelson Classic, the only tour event to honor a golfer. It opened in 1986 and is a cart-only golf course. But it doesn’t matter to you anyway, because you can’t golf here. It’s only for hotel guests of the Four Seasons and members. Hotel guests pay $142 plus tax per person per round.

In a meaningless September game, after the Texas Rangers got behind early, manager Johnny Oates decided to manufacture some history. He had utility infielder Scott Sheldon play all nine positions, including pitcher, in one game, becoming only the third player in major-league history to do so. Then Oates chastised those who criticized his move as tricked-up. (Pinch-hitter Jeff Liefer, who struck out against Sheldon, rightly said, “I don’t understand the logic behind it.”) “For a guy that doesn’t have a lot of major league service, he can say how many thousands of men have played professional baseball and only three have done it,” Oates said, confusingly. “It’s something to be proud of.” No, Johnny O., a winning season is something to be proud of.

You got a better choice? Tim Cowlishaw? As a columnist, he’s a good beat writer. Frank Luksa? Last year’s winner is better writing once a week than most folks are writing every day, but we feel guilty giving the award to a part-timer. Kevin Sherrington? Good writer, but he hasn’t completed a full season yet. Kevin B. Blackistone? Sorry, the pretentious “B.” disqualifies him. Jim Reeves or Gil LeBreton? Good, solid columnists, but they suffer from the same thing all the above names do–too often, their column is only as interesting as its subject matter. When we see Galloway’s picture, we always read on, whether he’s ripping the Cowboys or praising…well, he doesn’t praise, but you get the point. The test of a columnist is whether he engenders passion in the reader, and Galloway always makes that mark.

Really, what other choice is there? We love Don Nelson, but more for his don’t-give-a damn attitude and freaky X-and-O decisions (Shawn Bradley covering Muggsy Bogues) than his “coaching.” He’s a fun coach, but he isn’t much of a professional. Ken Hitchcock, however, exemplifies both words. He’s a pro: He handles the media, impressionable rookies, and irritable star players in perfect fashion. He’ll laugh and joke and aw-shucks reporters, and he’ll be a hard-ass jerk in the locker room when need be. Even if you don’t agree with his style, you can’t argue with his results. Yeah, he never played in the Bigs, blah blah blah, but he has taken two very different teams to the Stanley Cup Finals the past two years. His teams never give up, play best in close games, and almost never get out-coached. His constant line-juggling can make players tense, but he also sends a clear, important message: On a Ken Hitchcock-coached team, it’s your play, not your name, that determines how much ice time you see.

You can have your Humperdink’s, your neighborhood sports bars, your chains with 30 screens–we’ll take a smoky bar with a couple of small televisions. We watched every Stanley Cup Finals game there, and it was wonderful. You could walk in a few minutes before game time and get a booth, a beer, and a blue-cheese burger. By game’s end, the place was full, but, unlike sports bars, it wasn’t full of obnoxious drunks screaming after every play. It was full of quiet, contemplative drunks who preferred a simple, silent fist pump when things went well. In all, a sports lovers’ dream.

One of the great things the Internet brings to sports geeks is the chance to evaluate the beat writers for your favorite teams. You can read the work of sports reporters in other cities and see if they broke news first, if your hometown paper is just re-reporting something another paper already ran. And all our Net surfing has just confirmed our respect for Gerry Fraley. Even though Fraley is no longer the full-time Rangers beat guy–the very good Evan Grant holds that spot–Fraley still manages to bring the most insight, knowledge, and insider info to his stories. His clipped style is a joy to read, and his takes are always based in fact and not hype (for a long time, he has been the only writer, national or local, to consistently point out Ivan Rodriguez’s defensive and game-management deficiencies). Simply put, when we see his byline, we read, even it’s a minor-league report or a note from Dallas Cowboys training camp.

Whether it’s a day pack from JanSport or those Brunton Eterna 8×25 waterproof compact binoculars you need, you’ll find it at REI. (Good heavens, we’ve become advertising copywriters. “If you didn’t buy at REI, ask yourself, WHY?!?!”) Still, REI makes us feel less tethered to air-conditioning as soon as we walk in. All the equipment, info, maps, and expert advice you need to go camping, bear killing, whatever your outdoor pleasure. Even if you have no other use for that Moss Hooped Outland tent–“the best four-season, solo shelter available, featuring uncompromising strength, generous headroom, and great ventilation”–than setting it up in the back yard and watching your daughter have a tea party in it, well, you should still buy it at REI. At least the salespeople will think you’re a real outdoorsman.

If you were concerned that the effort to garner the 2012 Olympic Games for Dallas-Fort Worth was a joke, you only had to venture to Las Colinas for the Olympic triathlon trials to confirm your fears. On a day when some of the world’s best pure athletes gathered to swim, run, and bike, only a few thousand folks came out to see them. Too bad. Chevy spokesman Hunter Kemper may get smoked by the Aussies (the world’s best triathletes), but on a hot day in May he showed why he’s our nation’s best. The sponsors couldn’t have been happy, either: Games and booths were empty, vendors bitched, and a band played for three spectators after the event was over. A testament to the metroplex’s Olympic commitment. How much of our tax money is being wasted on the 2012 effort again?

The courts at Samuell-Grand Tennis Center are, like the game itself, an underutilized resource. A few middle-aged white guys playing doubles are all we ever see at this set of nicely maintained public courts. It’s enough to make you want to give up golf, where these days one does little more than stand around and wait. For $5.45, you can hack away at the little yellow ball until you drop and burn enough calories that you won’t be wearing your half-time snack.

If you’ve ever driven down Southwestern past the Village IM fields on a Monday night, then you’ve seen gaggles of Ultimate Frisbee players of all shapes, sizes, and genders hustling about in the Texas heat. This sport, which is like a cross between flag football, soccer, and, at times, roller derby, is every bit as strenuous and fatiguing as its predecessors. But much more fun. Every Monday night at 7 p.m., the place goes off. Experts and beginners welcome.

Recently, in a Playboy interview, Bob Costas railed on sports-talk radio: “With some notable exceptions,” Costas was quoted as saying, “sports talk radio is heat over light. It’s all about attitude taking the place of informed opinion. It’s so moronic. Hey, sports isn’t brain surgery, but neither should it be brain-dead.” Now, there is no doubt that Costas is one of the most articulate, passionate, respected men in sports. But allow us to ask this question in response to his statements: Why not? No offense to the many men and women who earn a living pontificating on the relative merits of the 1-2-2 trap, but sports is the perfect subject on which to favor attitude over anything else. If you want information, turn to newsprint, where it is housed. If you want pretty talking people with mellifluous voices, turn on your television. If you want folks throwing out what The Ticket calls hot sports opinions, go to radio, where you can join the braying if you like. There’s nothing wrong with radio being an outlet for folks who prefer to keep sports arguments on a barroom level: A player doesn’t struggle, he blows. A coach isn’t poor at adapting, he’s a friggin’ idiot. And the reason The Ticket has become such a success is that its hosts, by and large, understand that their job is to fire off opinions–silly, right on, everything in between. It may seem a cop-out not to choose one show here–OK, it is a cop-out–but each show does its job perfectly. In the mornings, George Dunham and Craig Miller team with Gordon Keith to give a well-rounded, familiar, mostly light-hearted presentation. The Hardline–Mike Rhyner and Greg Williams–is the steak dinner to D&M’s grand-slam breakfast: a forum for folks driving home to vent and hear the venting of an irascible crank (Rhyner) and a straight-shooting small-towner made big-time. (A duo that would, rightly, point out the number of clichés in that last sentence.) They’re the best at what they do, because they understand that what they do ain’t brain surgery. And they’re damn proud of that fact.

Yeah, yeah, we know, we’re bandwagoners. So sue us. (We’re kidding, Mr. District Attorney of Denton County, we’re kidding!) But although we’re still fans of last year’s winner, Lone Star Park, we can’t hide our excitement over SMU’s new house. Used to be, the only excitement to be found Saturdays on Mockingbird Lane was at the discount aisle at New Fine Arts, a bit west of campus. Now, the glory of college football spreads along Bishop Avenue from Mockingbird up through campus: adult beverages, fall weather, hot dogs and hamburgers, tailgating, tail…all the things that make game day on most college campuses special. Then, once inside the stadium, the atmosphere gets even better: Every seat has a good sightline, it’s not too crowded, but it is rowdy and fun. It completely refutes the asinine notion that SMU games were best when they were played off-campus by paid professionals.

Look, we’re Troy Aikman homers. Big-time homers. We’re such homers our son is named Bart, our nickname is Long Gone, and we’ve been known to sign copies of the Iliad on request (rim shot). We think it’s silly to think that Randall Cunningham is a better quarterback for this team. But we were still a little embarrassed for dallascowboys.com writer and Ticket “Ranch Report” filer Mickey Spagnola when he recently got into a pissing match with morning-show co-host Craig Miller. Probably because Spagnola is Italian (as are we; we know, a temper is a terrible thing), he turned an “Is Aikman slipping?” debate into a personal attack on Miller and folks who have opinions but who don’t go to every game, as Spagnola does. Miller, who argues like the single person he is–married men know it’s not how many debating points you win, but that everyone feels good about themselves when the argument is over–delivered shots too, basically calling Spagnola a Cowboys shill. That’s when it got ugly. And entertaining, in a train-wreck sort of way. Next up on the Spagnola-Miller agenda: Whose is bigger?

Yeah, it’s a big impersonal chain. Yeah, the jingles on TV are annoying (please get them out of our head…please). But there are some times in life when we want a megastore selection. We love Home Depot, OK? And we dig AS&O, because when we decide 21 times during the year that this is the weekend we’re going to start losing weight, we want a large selection of sports equipment to choose from. Perhaps we’ll take up soccer, or tennis, or dodge ball. Doesn’t matter. We can go there, spend all day piling crap in our cart that we’ll never use, and feel good about it.

About 10 years ago, we were sitting at a baseball game when our father, a man not given to hyperbole, was asked to name the best ballplayer he’d ever seen. He didn’t hesitate: Mickey Mantle, he said. Then this well-educated, jaded, late-middle-aged man got a dreamy look in his eyes and began to talk about The Mick in the most mythical way, searching for words that could explain his diamond glory. “In cleats,” our father finally said, “he was better than you can dream a man could be.” We suspect that, 30 or 40 years from now, we will react much the same way when our children or grandchildren ask us to describe Emmitt Smith. We’ll do what most people do when describing Smith. We’ll start by detailing what he wasn’t–he wasn’t the fastest running back we’d ever seen (that would be Bo Jackson), the most powerful (Earl Campbell), the most dazzling (Barry Sanders), the most durable (Walter Payton), the best blocking running back…well, actually, he was the best blocking back we’ve ever seen. But he was more than that, more than just an average-speed back who never seemed to get caught from behind, more than a cog in the Cowboys’ Super Bowl machines. He was…he was simply…this is where words will fail. Because it will be impossible to fully relate Emmitt Smith’s greatness, no matter our advances in vocabulary. Unless you saw him that Monday night when he bounced through the Atlanta defense like a silver-and-blue pinball, unless you saw him methodically destroy the New York Giants’ will with one good arm in 1994, unless you saw him burst through the Washington Redskins defense until only the speedy Darrell Green could chase him down, then watched, amazed, as he turned and tossed Green, a sure Hall of Famer, aside with a straight right arm to the chest…well, you’ll never be able to dream a man could be that complete a football player. The reason we all watch sporting events is to catch a first glimpse at athletic endeavors that are not heroic (as they’re often described) but are without a doubt transcendent. Emmitt Smith has provided such moments to Dallas Cowboy fans for more than a decade, and continues to do so even now, in the twilight of his career. Perhaps the simplest words are the best to describe him: When asked, we’ll just say he was the greatest running back ever. Our offspring will just have to trust us.

You say to yourself as you’re spraying a bucket of balls at Hank Haney Golf Center on a Wednesday afternoon: Sure, all those schmucks on Central are speeding off to come-to-Jesus meetings with the boss, or high-stakes sales calls, or divorce court. Not you. You’ve plunked down a few bucks, and you’re shanking away at the city’s most central golf attraction. For $15 you get the large bucket–155 balls–and a little piece of real turf. There’s chipping and putting too. But when you’re playing hooky from the man, there’s really no need to sweat the small stuff. Yank out the big stick and take your cuts.

Unlike the Byron Nelson, they don’t get Tiger Woods at the annual PGA tour event in Fort Worth. Insiders suspect it’s because Tiger’s sponsor, American Express, doesn’t want to help plug Colonial’s sponsor, MasterCard. Winding between some of the biggest pecans and oaks in the state, the Colonial course is a shrine to the game and one of the sweetest sports venues in the nation.

We keep waiting for Hansen’s act to wear thin on us. It obviously has on his humorless co-workers, who–save for the refreshingly human Gloria Campos–stare at Dale in confusion after he finishes a joke-laden sportscast. (Apparently a focus group hasn’t yet told them whether they’re supposed to laugh.) But we still love to watch Hansen, who is the most entertaining personality on local television. (An aside: Much as we like Babe Laufenberg, we miss Hansen in the radio booth during Cowboys games…but we digress.) This was never so apparent as when, after every moron in town was calling for Troy Aikman’s concussed head, Hansen spent his newscast sarcastically mocking that notion, showing highlights of Aikman-like drop-back passer Kurt Warner. It was two-plus minutes of ranting–far more entertaining and, hell, more enlightening–than another recounting of the day’s scores. Hansen is aware that people now get their scores on ESPN and the Internet; what he can offer is smart, snide commentary, often more valuable than an hour’s worth of X-and-O jock talk.

Yes, there’s a double standard that goes on with sports fans in Dallas. If Michael Irvin gets caught with a roach, we will decry him as a moral degenerate. But if Stars goalie Eddie Belfour gets arrested because he was drunk as a monkey, well, that’s just a man who lives a rock-and-roll lifestyle, brutha! Why? We’ll let you draw your own conclusions. A black man caught with drug paraphernalia? Run him outta town! A white dude gets too loaded on a legal drug? Party on! At least, that’s the way talk-show hosts and fans reacted to each episode. Our take: Michael Irvin was not only one of our favorite all-time Cowboys on the field, but he’s also a guy we’d like to get to know off the field. Two reasons. One, crazed egomaniacs don’t bother us (come to one of our editorial meetings sometime), and two, because, dude, we’re dry right now, and we need a man with connections. After putting together a 400-plus page Best Of Dallas issue, one that honors a rich 20-year tradition, smokin’ a bowl sounds so suh-weet right now…

In this, the season that marks the beginning of the end for Your Heroes, there is only one human-interest tale worth telling concerning Dallas Cowboys players. Tim Seder, the 5-foot-9, 180-pound kicker who went to tiny Ashland University, was teaching at Lucas High School in Ohio when he found out he had a long-shot chance to make the team. He came to his first workout wearing a pair of indoor soccer shoes, complete with holes, that he’d borrowed from a student. He then went out and won the job, beating out dozens of other, seemingly more big-name kickers. Since the season’s start, he has been the lone bright spot on a team that can no longer sniff mediocrity. Seder almost makes it worth going to home games, if only to root for him. Almost.