Seagoville High School hoops stud LaMarcus Aldridge spent most of his senior year trying to decide whether he would play basketball at the University of Texas at Austin in the fall or take his game directly to the NBA. This is the kind of decision you're faced with if you happen to be 7 feet tall and blessed with a point guard's game. Aldridge ultimately decided on UT (after signing a letter of intent, then changing his mind and declaring for the NBA draft, then changing his mind again), but his NBA dream will become a reality eventually, whether he decides to leave UT after one season or four. Maybe he'll even wind up playing for his hometown Mavericks. We can only hope.
There are so many moments that led to this winning entry that the playoff victory only grows more astounding with time: Steve Nash hitting the jumper over John Stockton with 12 seconds left to take Game 3 of the best-of-five series; Dirk Nowitzki and Michael Finley dominating the rout of the Jazz in Game 4; and the incredible double-digit, fourth-quarter comeback in Game 5, on the Jazz's home court, that led to the end-to-end astonishing scenes. One, that Michael Finley passed up the last shot to dish to a wide-open Calvin Booth to give him the layup and the team the lead. Two, that both John Stockton and Karl Malone missed open shots that would have given the Jazz the victory. It was all so unexpected that it gave this town a renewed sense of sports-watching awe. One request: Don't expect to see such a storybook finish this year. It's too much to ask of your Mavs. Just revel in 2001's season of b-ball fun. You may not see another like it for some time.
How we miss Big John. What a kind soul, always giving, never taking. Always eager to help the media with an informative dose of sarcasm and contempt. And that voice, that shrill, disagreeable voice, well, it doesn't get much better than that. Yeah, he was great. Then that no-good Tom Hicks and his toady, Doug Melvin, fired Johnny and instated Jerry Narron, who's a good guy but reminds us of poi. (Have you ever eaten poi? It's a lot like talking to Narron for more than a minute.) And for what, we ask? OK, maybe the Rangers weren't doing so hot. Maybe they were 20-some games out of first place and the pitching was ridiculous and the hitting was worse. And? The point? This award is for the best coach/manager, and, if you talked to the ornery one long enough, you'd get the sense that the losing had nothing to do with him, because he was a top baseball strategist, and everything to do with his no-good players, who were no good. So here's to you, Johnny, you being from another planet. You may be unemployed, but your knowledge of hit-and-runs and propensity to remind reporters of their baseball shortcomings is unparalleled.
It hurts giving this to someone at The Dallas Morning News, but as the Newsers go, Sherrington is a good one. We're still big fans of Randy Galloway, but we just don't see the Star-Telegram much anymore. (The Internet? Yeah, right. You ever tried to surf the Star-T Web site? Go ahead. We'll talk to you in a month.) For the most part, though, local sports scribes are disgruntled former athletes who never made it or pencil-necks who lucked into the business and wouldn't know a football from a foot in the 'nads. Not so with Sherrington. (We checked by kicking him in the groin.) He has a talent for finding otherwise overlooked stories, then translates them into solid copy with an engaging writing style. He has a wit and elegance to his writing that pulls you through and keeps you from using that particular section of newsprint for making paper hats during your kid's birthday party. Doesn't get much better than that.
Granted, they are few and far between, but the owner of the fast-fading Cowboys gets high marks for his decision to include former Olympic sprint champion and All-Pro wide receiver Bob Hayes in the club's oh-so-exclusive Ring of Honor. The planned Texas Stadium ceremony is about a decade late, but better than never, particularly in light of the fact Hayes' health is not good. Now, if Jones wants to make this celebrated list a second year running, he can get busy and announce that former general manager and NFL Hall of Famer Tex Schramm is next on the list.
A tough category. Still, even in a crowded field, one man stands out: that big rich billionaire owner who
isn't Mark Cuban. It's one thing to want your team to win. It's another to shell out an exorbitant amount of money in pursuit of that goal. But when you sit around and tell everyone that signing A-Rod for the now-infamous sum of $252 million will catapult the Rangers back to the top of the division, you've crossed the line. Come on, Tom Hicks, what were you thinking? Have a little modesty, and no one's bugging you. But be a braggart, and here we are. Getting Alex Rodriguez was good. Getting geriatric-ward regulars Ken Caminiti and Andres Galarraga and then thinking they could overcome horrible pitching was, ah, less than good.
Not to beat a dead horse...on second thought, that's what we'll do, because Lord knows this subject hasn't been addressed enough. Speaking of the almighty, God bless Doug Melvin for keeping up a brave front in light of the job he's been asked to do as the Texas Rangers' general manager. And what job is that, exactly? That would be serving as team owner Tom Hicks' personal errand boy, spending the off-season carrying out a shopping list that had him throwing around money like a juggler in the Treasury Department. Which would have been fine, probably, if Hicks hadn't asked Melvin to throw it all at Alex Rodriguez, to sign the biggest-name free agent on the market just to prove he could afford it. Did the Rangers need another bat in the lineup? Not really. And you have to believe Melvin was obviously well aware of that fact since, at one time, his was one of the most respected baseball minds around. But Melvin got the job done. Next on his to-do list: waxing Hicks' car.
It would be a stretch and--that's right, we said it--a disgrace to believe that any professional athlete is worth more than $25 million a season. Sure, Rangers shortstop-messiah Alex Rodriguez is having a great first season in Texas (he's going to end up with about 45 home runs, 130 RBIs and an average well above .300, not to mention a coupla hundred hits), but $25 million? Not bloody likely. Fact is, general manager Doug Melvin and owner Tom Hicks could have and should have found some other ways to spread the wealth. In case you missed the two items above, we'll say it again, slowly, so a billionaire can understand: It doesn't matter if A-Rod helps the Rangers score 10 runs a game if they don't have a few pitchers who can keep the team in the other dugout from getting 11. And they don't. So here's a suggestion: Put Rodriguez on the mound every fifth day. Couldn't hurt.
If you didn't notice, last year was a bit lean for the 'Pokes. Not so many wins. Quite a few losses. America's Team was in disarray, from Troy Aikman's countless concussions to Joey Galloway's season-ending injury to the poor fools who actually went to Texas Stadium to see them suck in person. Lending a bit of good sense in the aftermath was linebacker Darren Hambrick, a 6-foot-2, 235-pound pauper. See, Hambrick is smarter than all of us. That is, he examined the roster, realized how bad the team was, then demanded to be paid more than the rest of the stiffs. Makes sense considering he was chief among the stiffs, accounting for 154 mostly-by-accident tackles. When he realized Jerry Jones wouldn't pony up the money he wanted, he brooded and sulked like a child, refusing to attend "voluntary" minicamp. Then he lashed out at the media for making something of his tardiness. "I missed a voluntary camp," he said incredulously to a pack of reporters. "What do 'voluntary' mean?" Wow. Good with contract negotiations and sentence structure. How many Cowboys can say that? Hell, how many Observer employees can say that? Regardless, if you were in his spot, would you want to play for the 'Boys? Didn't think so. Like we said, Hambrick is smarter than all of us.
All right, so Frisbee golf isn't "cool" in the traditional, Osmond-family sense of the word. Still, it's pretty enjoyable. Grab a group of buddies, a few Frisbees and hike out to a course for the afternoon. It's a good time, and it's free, which makes it that much better. The only problem being, on most of these courses, there's not much shade. That said, B.B. Owens is close to downtown and pretty good as far as layout goes. There's a long "water hazard" and some good, secluded areas for "leisurely smoke breaks." Just bring water. Lots of it.
A down-home tavern where you are unlikely to run into jerks with their own pool cues who insist on getting in on your friendly game. It is easy to fit in with the mostly under-35 crowd who are interested in playing pool but not obsessed to the point of being irritating. Cuckoo's Nest has nine pool tables and a full-service bar, and beer is sold by the pitcher. You won't find tournaments, hustlers or the class valedictorian here.
OK, so the only pitch he's thrown in public recently was at a dog park off Mockingbird Lane. So what? Yes, he's old (54), and yes, he's been retired since 1993 (and that year he pitched only 66 innings). Still, have you been to The Ballpark in Arlington lately? Peanut vendors have more control over their pitches. Thanks to their stellar pitching staff, the Rangers would be lucky to retire the side in order at a T-ball game. Ryan probably doesn't have many 90 mph fastballs left in him, but hey, neither does anyone currently wearing a Rangers jersey. At this point, Ryan could pitch underhanded and he'd still be the No. 1 starter.
First and 10 used to be housed in the shopping center by La Bare, before it was razed to make way for the new Central Market scheduled to be built there. Now it's hidden in Hillside Village in the old Red's Barbecue spot, and we couldn't be happier. It boasts several televisions, a pool table, the fantastic arcade golf game Golden Tee, a shuffleboard table, all the standard sports bar accoutrements...but it has a few things that make it stand above other sports dives. Its burgers, for example, are fantastic, as are its cottage fries. But it also sports a helpful waitstaff, a loyal clientele of serious drinkers and smokers, quite cold pitchers of cheap beer and no unwanted distractions from sexy young men or women. This is not a college hangout; it's a dive bar that happens to have sports on the tube, which is all we want on game day.
What is it exactly that we like about bowling? Is it beer, the warm, moist rented shoes, the beer, the sport, the camaraderie or the beer? Open 24 hours, Carter's 58 lanes are always ready for desperate insomniacs who need the sound of falling pins to lull them to sleep. At nights on Tuesdays and weekends, they break out the blacklights for "Lightning Strikes," a sort of cross between disco and bowling--and can you get any classier than that? League bowling takes place every night except Saturdays. Did we mention they have beer?
The guys you see nightly at 10 still have a long way to go to match the accomplishments and class of Southlake resident and recent Sportscasters Hall of Fame inductee Pat Summerall. Alongside color man John Madden, the former New York Giants placekicker will be entering his 50th season as a broadcaster. During his remarkable career, he's done it all--from the U.S. Open to the Masters to Super Bowls--with a voice as rich and warm as high-dollar brandy.
Small specialty sporting goods stores, where expert athletes/salesmen carefully inspect your foot before finding just the right shoe, are an oasis for the dedicated athlete. At Run On!, a store that specializes in running shoes and gear, a salesman fitted us for a pair of Nikes with a narrow insole--just the way we like them--without telling us the cost. We expected him to say $120 or worse. The damage was much lower: $80. With three area locations, Run On! truly looks out for the consumer. It also sponsors cross-country runs and other events.
The greatest Rangers player ever, took his rightful place in Cooperstown on July 30. Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez played with the Rangers for more than a decade, backstopping the franchise to its first three division championships and winning the American League MVP for the 95-win 1999 Rangers. While Rodriguez didn't win a championship in Arlington, his 2003 win as a member of the Florida Marlins cemented his place as one of the five best catchers ever. His return to the Rangers in a 2009 trade remains one of the happiest reunions in the history of DFW sports. Rodriguez's Hall of Fame plaque shows him, as it should, in Rangers cap.
There is a time warp a-goin' on at this nondescript skating rink hidden off Northwest Highway. From the owner's tight designer jeans to the decades-old music to the four-wheel tan skates for rent to the hokeypokey, this is childhood as we remember it: chasing little girls in circles for hours to no avail. Fairly cheap birthday parties for kids make this a good retro time had by all. The only thing missing: Defender. Call for party prices and free-skate times.
We know, we know, we know, we know. How trite. How predictable. Der. We know it's the obvious choice. But this isn't the "Newest of Dallas." It's "Best of." And Hansen is still the best at what he does for two reasons: He's entertaining and smart. Sure he has a huge ego. OK, a monstrously huge ego. So? He understands that you can get your sports news anywhere, so to draw you to the increasingly irrelevant concept known as the local nightly newscast, Hansen has to make himself part of the show. We have no problem with that, so long as the performer is funny and clever and still knows more about sports than Macie Jepson, which he is and does. The only thing Hansen lacks is a catchy name, something the kids can relate to. Something like, oh, "Newy."
If you're planning to wander into the outdoors, REI will have just about anything you could possibly need. REI sells top-notch clothing and equipment for everything from camping, backpacking and canoeing to biking, skiing and rock climbing. (You can even try rock climbing in the store or sign up for one of many other outdoor group activities posted in the lobby.) These goods aren't cheap, but REI's retail prices are reasonable, particularly if you become a member. But what puts this store over the top is its sales: When they say sale, they mean it. We're talking 50 percent or more off on goods throughout the store. You don't have to become a member to shop here, but if you do, the $15 fee you spend to join will quickly turn into big savings.
This year's newcomer, the long-awaited 2-mile hike-bike trail between Reverchon Park and Knox Street, is the hit its backers said it would be. The elevated trail, set on the abandoned Missouri-Kansas-Texas railbed, runs through some of the most densely populated precincts in the city, and it's dog-eat-cyclist-eat-jogger all the way. Plans are in the works to extend the trail north to Mockingbird Lane and south to the new American Airlines Center. Eventually, it could link to Dallas' other great running path, the trail around White Rock Lake.
It's not the fanciest gym in the city, but it's a huge facility that's got up-to-date workout equipment of every variety, a full-size swimming pool, indoor and outdoor tracks and much more. But the best thing about the YMCA gym is that there are not a bunch of dudes lifting a dumbbell every five minutes and spending the rest of their time hanging onto exercise equipment talking to each other and trying to hit on the women. It may not attract an exclusive crowd, but YMCA members cut across all walks of Dallas life, and they go there to work out--including Dallas Mayor Ron Kirk and members of the Dallas City Council.
What can we say? This place is grand on nearly every level--and aesthetically pleasing as well. The luxury boxes, if you're ever fortunate enough to sit in one, are equipped with flat-screen televisions and Internet connections, while the regular-Joe seats will all have similar high-tech niceties before too long. Large concourses and windows make the experience feel more open--in contrast to Reunion Arena, which was similar to being crammed into a matchbox for three hours. Best part? According to the PR people at AAC, the new arena has an exorbitant amount of toilets, enough to ensure the lines won't be much of a hassle. So drink like fools and pee in peace.
In August, it's about 110 degrees inside; in January, it's about 40, give or take an icicle hanging off your nose. That's because Doug Eidd, the 70-year-old owner-trainer who looks about 50, doesn't believe in air conditioning or a heater or, for that matter, anything that gets in the way of a good workout. This gym, across the street from Dallas police headquarters, looks like something out of a Damon Runyon novel (from the bare bulb in the stairwell to the hole in the brick wall to the boxing ring in back) and feels like something out of an old prison movie; working out here is like lifting in the joint (or it did until a few women from nearby offices started working out at Doug's, thank God). And we wouldn't have it any other way. The equipment may be a tad rusty or stained by sweat, but who needs a froufrou health-food bar or Olympic-sized swimming pool or sauna or Jacuzzi or air conditioning, for that matter, when you're trying to drop a few pounds and firm up the flab? We go to lift, sweat, box, sweat, stretch, sweat, jump rope, sweat, throw the medicine ball, sweat and sweat. We took a guest once, and after a two-hour workout, he wanted to know, "Is this a gym or a torture chamber?" Why, yes, it is. And we know someone with the pecs to prove it: Doug Eidd, the only man in town who would have made Steve Reeves look like a little girl.
Entering the season, we thought this would go to whichever player stayed awake longest on the sideline. But the past year served as a basketball renaissance in Big D. No one was a more integral part of the turnaround than Steve Nash. Sure, Dirk Nowitzki and Michael Finley played well (and Mark Cuban is crazy, so he got points for that), but Nash made the team go. The diminutive point guard pushed them into the playoffs, where the Mavericks somehow came back from a two-game deficit to vanquish the hated Utah Jazz for the club's first playoff series win since...um...hold on...since a long time (solid research is the key to these annual awards). Aside from working his way around the court in that frantic, side-to-side style, aside from dishing out assists and raising his scoring average, Nash also became a fan favorite. His biggest contribution, though, is the hope he gives to unkempt men everywhere. Despite his messed hair and goofy smile, Nash pulls in tail. (See next item.)
Do you actually think that standing there at the 7-Eleven counter causing a backlog while you pick out six numbers is going to make one iota of difference in your chances of early retirement? Give it up, pal. Just take your scratch cards and get away from the counter so we can buy our Marlboros, OK? If you really feel the need to throw away your hard-earned money, here's a better option: Go out to Lone Star Park, where for just $3 admission you can spend all day flushing your money at a place custom built for people like you. Instead of standing next to the smoothie machine, you can enjoy the sights and sounds of live racing. And you can still cling to your silly little superstitions about lucky numbers, combinations and color schemes, but at least you can make an educated guess while you dream of bringing home a winner. Live racing resumes September 20.
He's better known for his passing skills and outside jumper, but Steve Nash has more than proven he knows how to rebound. After splitting with his "friend" Geri Halliwell, a.k.a. Ginger Spice, Nash hooked up with Elizabeth Hurley while she was in town filming
Servicing Sarah. How's that for trading up? Maybe Mark Cuban should keep an eye on Nash as a future general manager. Or maybe he should just try to get Nash to help him out with the ladies.
What is that feeling that overcomes us each time we wander into this two-wheeler superstore in the hinterlands to the north? Our palms sweat; our breathing becomes shallow; a goofy grin spreads across our mug; and we lose the ability to blink. Ah, yes...gear lust. Do we really need that nifty carbon-fiber, rear-suspension frame? Do we need a $3,000 poor-man's Porsche? We do. We do. We do. If you don't believe us, you've never experienced gear lust--or you're our wife. Although there are a few decent small bike shops in the Dallas area--including a smaller version of Richardson Bike Mart near White Rock Lake--this is Mecca for cyclists, offering everything from a full line of clothing, to bike-related coffee-table gewgaws, to a wide variety of recumbent, road, touring and mountain bikes.
There are a lot of good "hockey players" on the Stars roster. Mike Modano. Brenden Morrow. Jamie Langenbrunner. Ed Belfour. The list goes on. But everyone knows that hockey is still the bastard child of the four pro sports. C'mon, skating skills and shooting? Who cares? But large men going full speed with the singular mindset of mashing the opponent's teeth through his skull? Now that's compelling. No one's more adept at laying down the smackdown than Derian Hatcher. The team captain is also its best defender and most vicious enforcer. Pity those who cross him, as was the case in the hard-hitting first-round playoff series against Edmonton when several Oilers were checked mercilessly by everyone's favorite brute. It's a civil service, and well-performed at that.
From what we hear, the Lakewood Country Club has good food, a good pro shop and a good golf course. Of course, none of this is the point. The great part about Lakewood Country Club, for all you non-golfers with an adventurous spirit, is that the course is split on either side by Brookside Drive and La Vista, near Gaston. Now, the good people at LCC surrounded the course with a large fence, but that shouldn't stop you. When you're driving by, just when the golfer/target of your choice has reached his backswing, yell out the window or honk your horn. Or, if you're really into it, get out of your car and dance and cluck like a chicken while insulting his mother. The golfers will love it. Really. Then just stand back and absorb the colorful reactions.
Being out at the Ballpark these past few seasons has been a lot like getting a hot-sauce enema. Minutes seem like hours, and your ass gets itchy very quickly. Easing some of that pain, or at least doing his best to make everyone's job go a little more smoothly, has been Gabe Kapler. Where some, if not most, professional athletes run when they see a reporter or fan coming, Kapler is the rare player who will almost always give his time. Earlier this year, while he was on the disabled list and rehabbing in some god-awful town in Oklahoma, Kapler even took time out of his rehab schedule to do an interview with the Observer. This is a point of interest considering half the players don't know what the Observer is. Oh, and he's a decent hitter and fields well and all that jazz, so bully for Gabe. That, and we're afraid of him and his muscles, which pop from his shirt like overinflated balloons. See, Gabe, we told you you'd get this award. Now just don't hurt us.
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.
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?
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.
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...
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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, 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.
It's not that we're anti-Quincy Carter here at the Dallas Observer. In fact, we thought he should have started at quarterback over Vinny Testaverde. Hell, we think he should probably still be in a Cowboys uniform. They cut him for drug use? Drug use? Really? If we cut Observer staffers for drug use, there wouldn't be a paper. But that's neither here nor there. What made the circumstances around Carter's release so damn interesting was the fact that Carter got cut for using drugs even though he constantly talked about God this and God that. He was big into God, you see. Which made us wonder if God had something to do with his dismissal from the Pokes. Was the Almighty exacting revenge against a drug user who hides behind his good name? We think yes.
Readers' Pick
Mavericks in playoffs
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.
Since Scott Murray and his hairpiece moved on to bigger and better things, Dallas has enjoyed a rare period of top-to-bottom quality as far as sports anchors are concerned. It's a likable group of guys who don't try to turn every highlight into their audition reel for SportsCenter. (Though Channel 33's Bob Irzyk comes hauntingly close at times.) In any other city, Channel 5's Newy Scruggs and Channel 4's Mike Doocy would be co-captains of the team, dual yardsticks by which the others are measured. But this isn't any other city. It's Dallas, and Dallas belongs to Dale Hansen. Why? Because of moments like this: While wrapping up his coverage of Quincy Carter's release from the Cowboys, Hansen--clad in his usual training-camp uniform: the ugliest floral-print Hawaiian shirt available--said, "I should've known something was up with Quincy Carter when he saw me in this shirt the other day and asked me if he could smoke it." Then he threw it back to the studio, where an amused (and most likely horrified) John McCaa said, "Only Dale Hansen." Exactly. That's why he's the best.
Readers' Pick
Dale Hansen
White Rock Lake, as we all know, is one of Dallas' few naturally beautiful spots, along with certain rooftops downtown and Angie Harmon's belly. But the best way to see the lake is from on the water. The best way to do that is either in a sailboat or a one-seater. But who can afford a sailboat? So get yourself to the lake and get yourself in a kayak. KayakPower.com gives lessons for beginners through experts and even offers kids lessons. Not only is it a great way to get in touch with nature, it will give your arms quite a workout.
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.
A-Rod was right: These guys are a bunch of no-talent punks who aren't fit to carry his Prada bag. So what if they turned themselves around. So what if they won many more games without A-Rod than they won with the former A.L. MVP. Right? Uh, right. Sticking with A-Rod's theory--the theory that suggests that all players suck, except him--means that someone outside the lineup must be responsible for the turnaround. And someone is. His name is Buck Showalter. The manager, in only his second year, has "managed"--see what we did there?--to turn a last-place squad into a contender. Considering the pitching staff and the fact that the lineup is pretty much the same as it was a year ago (with one notable exception), we thought we'd give credit where it's due and laud Buck. He's done a fine job.
Readers' Pick
Mark Teixiera
When it comes to sporting goods, you need a place that carries a full spectrum of gear for everyone, from wet-behind-the-ears beginner to grizzled veteran. You want the simple two-person tent you can afford right now while you're still figuring out if you're an outdoors person and the tricked-out eight-person portable hunting lodge that gives you a goal to work up to should you decide that, yes, urinating in the woods is your bag. You want the 10-pound dumbbells for when you're just kind of kicking the tires of the whole "getting into shape" thing and the 20-exercises-in-one albatross that will one day be used as a coat rack when this process comes full circle. You need crappy running shoes and state-of-the-art ones, Styrofoam coolers and iceboxes that rival the Sub-Zero fridge at home, plain-jane cotton workout togs and stuff made out of Gore-Tex and CoolMax and Double Dry. You need a place that has something for every activity that could even tangentially be considered a sport and at every skill level. And that place, my friends, is, as the jingle says, Academy Sports and Outdoors. Academy!
Readers' Pick
Academy Sports & Outdoors
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 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?
Whether it's a day pack from JanSport or those Brunton Eterna 8x25 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.
We grew up loving Hoop-It-Up. Started by former D magazine Publisher Terry Murphy nearly two decades ago, it was a weekend that every weekend b-baller looked forward to, a chance to compete in three-man tournaments for bragging rights. But sometime during the past several years, it became an overly commercialized beast, one that had grown too huge and angry to be allowed to live. Even after referees were added, fights seemed inevitable, and the amateur fun and spirit of the enterprise had long ago dissipated. Better to have the memories than the impression made by Hoop-It-Up in its twilight years.
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.
Bowling is one of the few things in life where it is almost impossible to think of a way in which it could be better. After electronic scoring entered the picture, amateur keglers were pretty much set for life. The shoes, the lanes, the pins, the balls--none of it requires any tweaking whatsoever, and, in fact, the enjoyment of the game would be lessened if there were any present. To properly experience the game, a pair of outdated shoes must be rented. The search for the perfect ball must take a minimum of 20 minutes. The next lane must be close in order to properly keep a running commentary of all the fashion/athletic misfortune taking place. The lane attendant must be buzzed over at least once a game to retrieve a ball or dislodge a pin. As John Goodman said in The Big Lebowksi, "Smokey, this is not 'Nam. This is bowling. There are rules." Beyond that, all that's required is exactly what you'll find at Don Carter's: a well-lit place in which to smoke cigarettes and drink beer from cans. A staff that's friendly without being pushy. An ample number of lanes so the wait is short if not nonexistent. A location off a major highway so just the right cross section of locals is present. Like we said, no tweaking necessary.
Readers' Pick
Main Event Entertainment
Various locations
Athletes come and go all the time. That's the nature of, uh, the game. Generally, it doesn't faze us. Most of the time, actually, we're happy to see them go. Most of the time, the athletes who are on the way out (much like the ones who will replace them) are condescending jerks we'd like to kick in the junk but can't because of our stupid lawyers and their "law concerns." Former Maverick Antawn Jamison wasn't one of those athletes. He was a good guy, always quick with a smile or a kind word. He was a real person, and that was the biggest loss of all. He'll be playing elsewhere next season, but many of us will be rooting for him. Especially our sports columnist, who, we think, has an unhealthy man-crush on the now-departed baller. He's extremely odd that way--our columnist, that is, not Jamison.
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.
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.
Ever since Don Nelson has been a head coach in the NBA, he's lamented the fact that he hasn't had a dominant center. Ever since you've been a Mavericks fan, you've lamented the same thing. And then, just when we all thought we'd die without seeing a true center in a Mavs uniform, rumors began to float that Shaquille O'Neal was coming to town. The Lakers were going to trade him here, people said, because he couldn't play nice with Kobe Bryant. It was a matter of when, not if, people kept saying. But those people were wrong. After a few weeks of reading the newspapers and checking ESPN, we realized something: We'd been duped.
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.
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.
Every off-season around Thanksgiving, the local chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America votes for a Pitcher of the Year from the Texas Rangers. Last off-season, they chose John Thomson. He is a nice guy, a decent pitcher. He also is a loser, at least that year. Let's be clear on this: The Rangers' best pitcher was a man who went 13-14. He lost 14 games! This may have something, something to do with why the Rangers sucked so tremendously hard in 2003.
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 the year that the poker craze went mainstream, Dallas put its stamp on the newest, hottest pastime in America. (Granted, we told you about Texas hold 'em and Dallas' T.J. Cloutier back in 2001, but who's counting?) This year, SMU student David Williams came in second in the World Series of Poker main event, and the millions he won have given him a bankroll so that we'll probably see him on the circuit for years to come. But it's Dallas' sexy poker star who had the best cards dealt her way. Clonie Gowen is one of the big guns behind the Web site FullTiltPoker.com (along with superstars like Phil Ivey and Howard Lederer), she established herself as a player not just in one tournament but throughout the year and, most impressive, she played three times in the weekly poker game of some Dallas Observer staff writers. What higher honor is there?
Not since infamous basketball coach Bobby Knight hurled a folding chair across the hardwood has a piece of furniture gotten so much attention. But thanks to Rangers reliever Frank Francisco, collapsible chair throwing is once again en vogue. During a late-season game at Oakland, Francisco took offense to something that one of the A's fans was saying about his mama. (We don't care what anyone says it was really about--for a guy to get that heated, something had to be said about his mama.) Naturally, Francisco retaliated by grabbing a chair and throwing it into the stands. If there were an Olympic chair-throwing event, Francisco would have scored some serious points on distance and velocity, but he would have lost points on accuracy (he missed the intended target and hit a woman instead).
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.
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.
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.
You could make a case that Dirk Nowitzki is a better player, or that Michael Finley was a better locker-room leader, but it would be hard to argue against Steve Nash being the guy who made the Mavs go. When he was in the lineup, the offense flowed. When he wasn't, the team looked like the Harlem Globetrotters after Curly Neal and Meadowlark Lemon--lots of run, not much gun. So, at least as far as his on-court ability is concerned, we're sorry to see him go to Phoenix. On the other hand, we weren't big fans of his outspokenness about the war (any athlete who pontificates about real-world issues makes us projectile-vomit) or his penchant for fleeing after practice before talking to the media. Then, he is from Canada, and they're a little odd up there, so maybe all of that makes sense after all.
Readers' Pick
Dirk Nowitzki
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.
The secret ingredient that makes high school basketball so enjoyable at Forester Field House is this: The entire place smells like nacho cheese. High up in the stands or down by the court, inside the bathroom or just outside the front door. Everywhere. There's something about that smell, combined with sneakers squeaking on hardwood, that just means good times. The not-so-secret ingredient is the fact that Dallas produces some of the finest high school b-ball around. Last year, that meant the dominant Lincoln High girls team (we saw them almost beat a team by 100 points) and Seagoville High's LaMarcus Aldridge (we saw him beat a team by himself). This year, there's a good chance the thrills will be provided by Lincoln's point guard Byron Eaton, a flashy bulldog who cannot be stopped when he's on his game. Check him out, and do it at Forester.
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.
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?
Seriously, if you're going to act like "the biggest jerk in this park" (Rangers announcer Tom Grieve's words), you may as well make sure your actions are so assholish that Good Morning America talks about you. And Matt Starr did just that. At a June game between the Texas Rangers and the St. Louis Cardinals, Starr went after a foul ball. Problem was, he crashed into a mother and her 4-year-old son to do so. OK, sometimes you get carried away. But then, with the kid crying and the mother upset, the guy smirks and refuses to give the kid the ball. The crowd starts chanting at Starr to give up the ball. He refuses. Now, after a media firestorm during the next few days, he finally decides to give the kid the ball and buy his family some Rangers tickets. Which really disappointed us. See, if you're going to be a bastard, don't half-ass it. You missed your chance to do the normal, human, decent, caring, thoughtful thing. That ship had sailed, buddy. So, even though you're not perfect, you're still the best douche bag we have, and we honor you for that.
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.
We recently played this course with two top-notch golfers, country club players who are very picky about where they play 18. They confirmed what weekend hackers like us had long suspected: Tenison Park's revamped course, The Highlands, is a jewel. The D.A. Weibring-designed course is a nice mix of tree, water and elevation changes. (The view from the tips, which we drive by on our way to our tee box, is often majestic.) If Tenison Highlands is packed up with foursomes, Tenison Glen is itself a very nice course that snakes around White Rock Creek. For those who need lessons (hello), The Range at Tenison Park offers great instruction and a nice facility from which you can spray your shots left and right.
Readers' Pick
Tenison Park Golf Course
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.
Who really cares what the man does on the field? We sure don't. What we enjoy most about Johnson is what drew us to Michael Irvin and the rest of the bad boys from the '90s--he talks a lot, and it almost always pisses someone off when he does. That makes our job a whole lot easier, and we love him for it. You never have to worry about Johnson dropping a "no comment" or dancing around an issue. And there's something to be said for that. There's also something to be said for his use of humor. When he was first introduced to the Dallas media, he called owner Jerry Jones "coach Jones" and then, with a wry smile, quipped: "Hmm, I don't know why I keep calling him that."
Readers' Pick
Roy Williams
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.
You could say that the chief quality of a good columnist is that he or she always surprises the reader. Except that one can do so in bad ways, such as when a Metro columnist writes about his dog dying or the back-porch witticisms spouted by his parents. Fraley, though, surprises sports fans in good ways. He is a contrarian when appropriate, writing compelling columns about why the much-hated Barry Bonds deserves respect. He offers context in his columns, such as when he said that Buck Showalter's influence with management could be as damaging as Lou Piniella's power reign was to the long-term prospects of Seattle. He champions the underappreciated (TCU) and isn't afraid to call out local stars (Hank Blalock). That he is able to consistently surprise and enlighten sports fans, most of whom are already immersed in the day-to-day activities of their favorite players and teams, makes him a star in the local media lineup.
Readers' Pick
Randy Galloway
Fort Worth Star-Telegram
Known to some as "DJ Banger," this 7-foot discovery from the Congo won't offer a lot in the way of scoring or minutes played this year. But several facts about him already make him our favorite Maverick. One, with his wide eyes and small but prominent ears, he looks like Popeye Jones' younger, bigger, thinner brother. Two, he already is the toughest Mav on the team and a person who can at least put some hard fouls on various NBA jerks (we're looking at you, Doug Christie). Three, he was the inspiration for the best line in SI.com's Mavs off-season review: "You have to pay a $7 cover whenever DJ Mbenga spins, but it's worth it."
For a while there, we were thinking about giving this award to someone else, and then we realized something: We don't really know anyone else on the Stars. Not anymore. It seems as though all of our old favorites are gone. All of them, except Modano. Plus, the NHL might be on hiatus for a while, what with the impending labor negotiations, so we thought it might be nice to send Modano out with a bang, just in case hockey never comes back and he has to spend the rest of his days as a used-car salesman or something. After that, we figure he'll be homeless and sleeping in a gutter somewhere. Which will be sad. Very, very sad. So, congrats, Mike, and enjoy it while it lasts--you won't get this kind of attention at the soup kitchen.
Readers' Pick
Mike Modano
How unimaginative, right? How formulaic, even? See, you've been reading the
Morning Yawn too much. Finley, the franchise's most identifiable player for years, wins the award, but not for the obvious reasons. Not because he averaged 20.6 points, 5.2 rebounds and 3.3 assists per game as a Maverick last season. Not because he makes slick commercials. Not because he's constantly on the trading block. No, he wins because he was the lone Mavericks representative on the underachieving, embarrassing U.S. squad that inexplicably failed to medal at the World Championships in Indianapolis--a team that lost to Argentina, Yugoslavia and Spain. Hey, when you get punked by Pepe Sanchez and still show your face in public, you ought to win some sort of award. Perhaps he just needed the steadying hand of his coach. Which brings us to...
Lone Star Park's live Thoroughbred racing season is painfully short, but you can always get a horse-racing fix or just blow many hours and many dollars at the track's simulcast racing restaurant and bar. With two giant video screens and 175 small tabletop televisions, the place looks a bit like a Las Vegas-style sports book. It's open just about all year, and you can bet on tracks across the United States, depending on which ones are open. Racing form sheets from the various tracks are for sale, so besides the smell of horse shit, it's almost as good as being at a real live track during racing season. The restaurant offers passable food, so entertainment during a late lunch is a good and legitimate excuse to go. Plus, gambling is fun. And always profitable. Trust us.
You just don't appreciate it, OK? The most important international event in Thoroughbred racing--more important than the Kentucky Derby, though not as historic--is coming for the first time to Grand Prairie. It's not like we get an abundance of championship sporting events in Dallas, and the Breeders' Cup is definitely the highlight of the international racing calendar, with $14 million in purses on the line. The Breeders' Cup Classic, worth $4 million itself, often decides the horse of the year, and each of the other seven races on the Breeders' Cup card can yield a divisional champion. Smarty Jones is out of this year's Classic after his early retirement, but you can still expect Pleasantly Perfect, who took the $6 million Dubai World Cup earlier this year and will defend last year's Classic win; Azeri, the finest female Thoroughbred in training in the United States; this year's top remaining 3-year-old, Triple Crown spoiler Birdstone; last year's Kentucky Derby and Preakness winner, Funny Cide; as well as champions from England, France, Ireland and all the places that host high-caliber racing. Also present will be the top riders in the world. This is the Super Bowl and World Series wrapped into one.
Most of the stars from the Super Bowl glory days have retired or faded, leaving but one player at Valley Ranch who plays the game at a level few attain. Offensive lineman Larry Allen, all 6-foot-3, 335 pounds of him, continues to dominate the opposition like no one else in the league. And he's living, breathing proof that it isn't just the big-name colleges that provide NFL talent. All-Pro Allen came to the Cowboys via Oroville, California's, Butte Junior College and Division II Sonoma State. Besides all that, he's got some sort of Fu Manchu facial-hair thing working this year. Which is sweet.
Once again, Mike Modano was the biggest star on the Stars, a team that woefully underachieved. He played great two-way hockey (offense and defense, for those who don't follow this great game, and woe is you) and could still dominate a game with his speed and strength. But to our minds, the man who played the best hockey--when he was on the ice--was backup goalie Marty Turco. Sure, being the backup goalie is like being the backup quarterback; everyone loves you until you become No. 1. But Turco didn't just put up great numbers (15-6-2, with a save percentage at .920 and a goals-against-average of 2.09) against bad teams, like so many backups do. He had wins against Colorado, San Jose, Chicago, Phoenix and other playoff teams. He gave the franchise hope for the future. And when Tom Hicks "suggested" that Eddie Belfour be played down the stretch so that the team could make the playoffs and make more money (oh, it must be true, you know in your heart it must be true), Turco didn't bitch. He just bided his time until the team told Belfour to puck off. The mark of a classy guy, one who should help this team for years to come.
Admit it: You thought the Rangers would be awful this year. You didn't like any of the veterans the team acquired; you thought that the young players were a year away from being great--oh, and there was that little matter of trading away the game's best player, Alex Rodriguez. But the surprising pennant run the team made changed all our minds. The best part of the season was that so much of it was dependent on young players, guys who should be Rangers for the next few years. When a team builds itself with guys like Michael Young, Alfonso Soriano, Mark Teixeira and Francisco Cordero, it not only makes us pleased with the present, it makes us giddy about the future.
OK, their team logos do resemble each other, but is this the sort of nonsense our court systems are supposed to waste time with? The soccer team, the Dallas Sidekicks, has long had this cute little soccer ball wearing a cowboy hat and a bandanna that looks like something the old B-Western bad guys wore to hide their faces. The arena football team, the Dallas Desperados, has a guy on the logo who also has his face covered by a bandanna. So, natch, the Sidekicks called the lawyers. Not the sort of stuff that's likely to be aired on Court TV, but a good example of the competitive nature of Dallas' pro franchises.
We bet you didn't know this, but the Professional Bowlers Association is trying very hard to make bowling hip again. We're not sure how they're doing, although we suspect a Legends Tournament with Britney Spears and that hunk from
Dawson's Creek would be a good way to start. But we like bowling because it's tragically unhip. To us, it is a sport that invariably conjures up fond memories of Laverne and Shirley, not to mention icy cans of Milwaukee's Best. Maybe Coors Light is a better choice in Texas, but the theory is the same: Bowling is an easy, affordable entertainment option for all ages, and Don Carter's All Star Lanes is the city's best place to roll away a night or, if you really get hooked, sign up for more committed league play. Who knows? That Burleson gal from
American Idol may be on your team.
Just in case you're confused, we're talking about Donnie the son, not Don the father. Donnie, who is an assistant coach with the Mavericks in addition to being the president of basketball operations, wins this particular award, but not because of anything he did with X's and O's. Rather, he wins because the guy has some serious hoops skills. You wouldn't know it by looking at his now-doughy frame, but the man can play some ball. During the annual media-coaches Hoop-It-Up game, Donnie made area journos look like a bunch of Jerry's kids. He posted up, spotted up and drove the lane. He was like Michael Jordan out there. Only shorter. And with less hops. And with a slower first step. But trust us--he was like Michael Jordan.
Readers' Pick
Bill Parcells
When we were young, we swore we would never golf. We saw the sport as Mark Twain did, "a good walk spoiled." Of course, we also thought our metabolism would keep us at 175 pounds, no matter what we ate. Age changed both of these ideas. So when we decided to take up golf this year, we were--and are--forever thankful we found the Golf Academy of Dallas, located at The Range at Tenison Park. Director of Instruction Scott Robbins and his crew (we also worked with former LPGA player Kelly Holland, who was wonderful) make even the most uncoordinated golf beginner feel comfortable. They specialize in the beginner but also have classes for intermediate level and private lessons for whomever needs his or her swing tinkered. If you ask nicely, Robbins will also teach you the lingo you'll need to appear cool on the course (for example, they're not golf clubs, they're sticks). All the info you need on The Range is online at www.rangeattenisonpark.com. Nothing for you to do now but golf it.
If you're like us--and we hope you're not, because a trip to rehab is in your immediate future--the perfect game of pool happens between two events: the fifth bourbon-and-whatever of the night and the first broken glass. The former causes the game of pool to happen (because we're getting antsy and competitive), and the latter is caused by the game of pool (because we're antsy, competitive and a bit lax with our drink placement). Because of this, we tend to go to bars that have pool tables and not pool halls that serve drinks. Either way is fine; we're just telling you what we do. In that scenario, there is no finer place to play pool than upstairs at City Tavern. The tables are more than adequate, well-maintained without making too much of a production about it, spacious but not to the point where you start feeling all self-conscious, as if you should be wearing a tuxedo like one of those guys on ESPN2 at 4 a.m. But it's the rest of the package that seals the deal. It's like being in a well-heeled friend's basement: You can still watch whatever basketball/football/baseball/hockey game that's on from any vantage point, thanks to the flat-screen TVs hanging in the corners. The two friends not playing pool with you can jump knee-deep into a round of Golden Tee a few feet away. And the waitresses don't ignore you just because you're shooting some stick.
Readers' Pick
Clicks Billiards
Various locations
Nobody, but nobody, tries to "buy a game" the way golfers do. You say this Fred Flintstone-sized titanium driver is longer, straighter, truer and it's played by the guy who won on the Tour last week? I'm down. Wrap it up. You say these new $39-a-dozen balls will keep me on the short grass? I'll take two dozen. With the prices club makers want these days, it doesn't hurt to save a few bucks on this kind of habit. An even bigger plus at Wally's is having sales guys who are knowledgeable enough to help you pick the right stuff. We found them at the branch we frequent on Stemmons Freeway. This is a locally owned outfit, in business since owner Wally Arbuckle began selling clubs out of his garage in the 1960s. The trade here is pro-line clubs, meaning the kind used by good players and countless hackers who think a sweet shot is only a $400 driver away.
We found this place on the Net, and it's a haven for golfers on a budget (like us). Dallas Golf has a fantastic selection of used clubs they sell at their four stores around the metroplex or online, either through their own site or on auction sites such as eBay. They also have new clubs--the folks in Richardson set us up with a great set of a knockoff brand, since we've just taken up the game--so don't be surprised if you go to pick up a great used value but just can't help it when you come outta there with that never-been-swung titanium driver.
We like Lone Star Park; it's as family-friendly as horse racing can be, but we're not real keen on initiating our 5-year-old son into the rites of gambling. That's why we venture to the Dr Pepper/Seven Up Ballpark in Frisco, which rises incongruously from a suburban expanse of malls and glass boxes. Step inside, and you're immediately sucked into an illusion of small-town Americana. It's kind of weird when you think about it, and the game itself is entirely incidental (who are those guys, anyway?), but a Frisco RoughRiders game is a lot of fun. The place is clean (check out the interior-designed women's potties), there aren't any bad seats, you have plenty of munchies to choose from, and the kids will love gyrating to the tunes blaring across the PA system or watching cheesy minor-league stuff like a PG-rated visit from the "San Diego Chicken." Another good thing: Tickets start at $7 (plus the $1 "convenience charge," Ticketmaster commission and all that junk) and top out at $18. So you may be living an illusion, but at least it's an affordable one.
This popular sports bar has seven coin-operated tables and free pool before 7 p.m. It might not be for purists, but the place is usually jumping. There's a regular Saturday tournament and plenty of non-pool diversions, including Foosball, darts and shuffleboard. Bar food ranging from sandwiches to sandwiches--pastrami, roast beef, turkey and ham--complements the main course at the bar.
We really sweated about this one. Not because we're overly hairy, even though we are. Because we like so many sports talk shows. We love the laid-back stylings and intelligent banter of Dunham & Miller (and Gordon) on KTCK-AM 1310 The Ticket during morning drive. We're big fans of Newy Scruggs on ESPN 103.3 after that. We think Bob and Dan middays on The Ticket are extremely underrated--we almost always find the sports talk and the jackassery engaging. And we have a soft spot still for warhorse Randy Galloway on ESPN, especially when he lets Jennifer Floyd Engel from the Fort Worth Star-Telegram sit in (mee-yow). So we asked a buddy: What criteria should we use to decide? He said, simply: When you get in your car, you look at the clock on the dash. Depending on what time it is, when are you most excited to turn on the radio? That would be between the hours of 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., during The Hardline on The Ticket. Like all good radio shows, the chemistry of the entire cast--Mike Rhyner, Greg Williams, Corby Davidson and Danny Balis--is what sucks you in, keeps you around, makes you laugh. That and hearing Williams say things like "She's so horny she'd hump a rock pile if she thought there was a snake in it."
Readers' Pick
The Hardline
Following the A-Rod trade, someone asked the Texas Rangers owner if ticket holders--chiefly those who bought in after the "he's not going anywhere" comment by Hicks--would be given a refund. "There won't be any refunds," Hicks said, sounding like Paul Dooley in Breaking Away. "Of course not." The fans were all kinds of pissed off about that. For some reason, they don't like being lied to and then told that they're going to be fleeced, too. Ah, but the joke was on them, and us, too. Hicks, for the first time ever, actually knew what he was doing. By subtracting one of the league's best players, he actually improved the Rangers. Who knew? So let that be a lesson to you. Next time the Rangers and Hicks promise one thing and then screw you stupid, remember, they do so with your best interests at heart.
For sheer size and variety--and that friendly YMCA atmosphere--it's impossible to beat the big Y, which at one time not long ago billed itself as the biggest Y on the planet. There's a pool, indoor track, squash courts, racquetball courts, hoops courts and machines of every description: rowers, cycles, runners, weights and stairs. Combine that with all the classes, and pretty soon you'll be what our old Y instructor said we should be, back when it might have been true. As he put it: "Be proud of your body." An Observer staffer who belongs said make sure to mention the covered smoking area outside--but we won't.
Oh, you can keep your froufrou gyms, your pantywaisted health clubs. Go soak your head in the Jacuzzi. Pull up to the juice bar and take your slug of wheatgrass. Go ride your stationary bike, 'cause you ain't goin' nowhere. Yeah, sport, just wrap yourself in a freshly laundered, club-provided terry-cloth towel and leave us the hell alone. We're over at Doug's, sweating our asses off in the middle of summer and freezing our nuts off come February 2; we ain't got no time for such luxuries as air conditioning. We come here to do one thing: get ripped, baby, pumped to the pecs. Doug Eidd, owner of this joint since Jack Ruby was a free man, has no patience for the namby-pambies of your more expensive gyms; this is bare bones, man, down to the sinew. Doug trains with the counsel of the elders and the patience of the divine, as both men and women who care only about getting fit hang here and endure the regime he will design solely for you. Weight lifting, boxing, jumping rope--it's simple, and yet so danged tough. We're still not sure if we're exercising or enduring ritualistic torture--really, who in 2002 tosses the medicine ball, save for us dopes--but we like the way we look; so do the ladies. Well, not really. But they will, damn it. Oh, they will. Won't they?
All the amenities of the most expensive country clubs at a reasonable price, and close to downtown--anything you want in your gym, the Premier Club has it. Great basketball courts with good games running during lunch and after work; racquetball courts; acres of workout equipment; a revamped Olympic-sized pool; an indoor running track; scads of classes offering the latest workout crazes (spinning, Pilates, yoga, etc.). Top that off with a wonderful cafe that offers delicious healthful meals and yummy smoothies, and you have a club that makes working out something you look forward to. Almost.
Readers' Pick
24 Hour Fitness
Various locations
He's been knocking around the NBA for four decades, as a player, coach and general manager, so he should have things figured out, right? What the three-time Coach of the Year has done since his arrival in Dallas is steadily gather a collection of talented players and design a game plan that best suits them. In elevating the Mavericks to playoff caliber, he's gone with the run-and-gun, put-it-up-quick offense that delights fans and keeps the hometown crowds cheering. And bet that he's beating the bushes for a big guy who can add some needed defense in the middle. Highly regarded for a history of taking low-round draft picks others should have selected earlier, he might soon find that last needed ingredient. Don't forget his best attribute: He works well with the psycho billionaire who owns the team. Which ain't as easy as it sounds. Which brings us to...
On any given Friday or Saturday night, you can join the cool kids from middle school once again. For $6.25 or less, don the brown and orange skates of yore and cut loose to the sounds of Cheap Trick, Vanilla Ice and J. Lo. You might even catch sight of a staffer or two clinging to the wall for stability and jealously eyeing the preteen speed-skaters. It's a helluva good workout (you'll realize how good when the aches hit the day after), and fret not, the Lucky Number game, the races and the Couple Skate live on here. Lace up and roll out.
Short of building a half-pipe or draining the pool in your own back yard, there aren't too many places anymore to skateboard in Dallas without needing a police lookout. Eisenbergs has the best layout for practicing anything from an ollie to a trick from Dogtown & Z-Boys. The park also offers amazing graffiti, live music, ramps for bikes, blades and boards and a reasonable admission fee. Parents can feel comfortable dropping the kids off or donning a pair of Etnies and trying it themselves...don't worry, they rent out helmets and kneepads.
With most professional sports franchises updating their facilities, there aren't a whole lot of old dogs panting out there anymore, which is why we're so fortunate to have Texas Stadium. Forget the Cowboys' drive to build themselves a new, modern complex that would be worthy of America's Team. What they don't understand is that they already have a first-rate facility. Sure, it's a few decades old. Sure, it looks like an erector set, and the cold, gray concrete is unsightly. Sure, the passageways smell of stale beer and the ground under the seats looks like someone just pissed there. But who cares? When out-of-towners visit our fair city and ask, "Why the hell is there a hole in that roof?" doesn't that make it all worth it?
Readers' Pick
American Airlines Center
2500 Victory Ave.
Ray Johnston is the kind of guy you don't wanna end up guarding in a pickup game at the local park. It's one thing to be shown up by the guy in the vintage Jordans and the headband cocked just so, who looks like he was practicing turnaround jumpers as soon as he could walk. It's quite another to have a 6-foot-nothing loan officer skipping bounce passes between your legs and swishing 20-foot jumpers on you all day. But that's what you get if you take Johnston, 25, lightly. You probably won't now that the secret's out. And it is most definitely out. The Mavericks invited him to play at a summer minicamp after watching him play in the Hoop-It-Up tournament, and then added him to the team's summer-league roster. Will he make the real squad this season? No way. But his dream is still alive.
Dallas isn't exactly a walking city known for sweeping waterfront vistas or any vistas for that matter. So, ho-hum, here we go again with The Rock--but you got a better answer? Didn't think so. White Rock Lake is a perennial Best Of favorite and deservedly so. More than 11 miles of biking and jogging trails surround this 1,000-acre lake, a group called "For the Love of the Lake" says. You have a view of the lake, parks, other bikers and other joggers. It is far and away the best place to run away from the city.
This is the Sears of sports stuff. Solidly middle market, serviceable and so wide-ranging it's impossible not to find something in your sport of choice. Although Oshman's isn't the place for upper-end specialty gear, at times you can find the very best of what you're looking for at bargain prices. A few months ago, we found a pair of North Face climbing shorts for an unheard-of 40 percent off. The tennis gear, too, is top of the line. Whether you are looking for clothing, a set of weights, a soccer ball or a very good tennis racket, you have a good chance of ending your hunt here.
Don't get us wrong. We love quite a number of Dallas' outdoor boutiques, the ones selling full lines of Patagonia fashions and some of the coolest shoes known to man. But when it comes time to spring for a serviceable sleeping bag or a backpack, REI's prices and selection are the ones to beat. A few years back we bought some first-rate North Face bags, and nobody could top this warehouse-sized, outdoor category killer. And that didn't include the 10 percent year-end refund, which goes along with the co-op-style way REI does business. Some of the fine, high-end outfitting stores in the area are more likely to meet the demands of back-country winter hikers or rated mountaineers. But for all-around outfitting and camping stuff for the whole family, REI gets the nod.
Sarah Melton fell in love with basketball because she had to--there was no other choice. When you grow up in Indiana, that's what happens. In Indiana, there's basketball and...well, we're not really sure what else they have in Indiana because we've never been there. But we suspect it's miles upon miles of wheat and cornfields broken up by strategically placed basketball courts.
"Oh, come on, Indiana is great," says Melton, who became the Mavericks' PR director last year at the tender age of 27, making her the youngest person to hold that position in the NBA. "But you're either an Indiana fan or a Purdue fan. I grew up an Indiana fan, and my dad was a ref, so we always had basketball on the television. Always. I never missed an Indiana basketball game. Actually, this is a funny story. I went to Indiana [University]. Before I got there, I only missed one game, and it was in the first grade. My mom grounded me for not doing my science fair project, and she wouldn't let me watch the game. I'm a first-grade girl who can't watch basketball, but I'm really, really upset. The bummer about that was the game I missed was the game that Bobby Knight threw that chair across the court."
Luckily for her, she was conditioned at an early age--programmed to enjoy basketball but also to understand that strange things can happen. Chairs get thrown. Players bust your chops. Owners run out onto the court. That's basketball--at least it has been for Melton.
After college, she ended up with the Mavericks. Gregg Elkin, who worked as the sports information director at Indiana University, had moved to Dallas to head the Mavs' PR department. He had a job open for an assistant, and he offered it to Melton. She immediately jumped at it. But, after her first road trip, she wasn't sure if she had jumped in it.
"The first trip I went on was to Detroit," Melton recalls. "They had these old, almost high school-style, rickety locker rooms. They were very small. I thought I had enough experience to do the job, but I didn't really want to go in the locker room. I was like, 'This isn't for me.' But I just went in there and did my job.
"I have to be professional. And because of my age and my gender, I'm a minority in both in the NBA. I have to work that much harder to avoid the perception that I'm anything but a professional. The players test you. They say things. They'll comment on what I'm wearing or my boyfriend, but I don't let that bother me. I never have. I can't be the girl who dates the athletes. The job is too important to me. There are a lot of girls who work for teams who like the job but who want to date the players. So, yeah, I do have to work that much harder."
When Elkin left last year to become the PR director for the Texas Rangers, everyone just assumed that Melton would take over. And she did. She never even had to interview. Instead, Matt Fitzgerald, the senior vice president of marketing and communications, simply pulled her aside one day and told her the job was hers. But considering the NBA's history on gender equality, it wasn't a given that Melton would get the gig. Before Melton, there were only three other women serving in that capacity in the league. Today, there are five out of 30. And, at the time, Melton was the youngest person, male or female, to be an NBA PR director. She had a lot of history and politics working against her--all of which the Mavs, to their credit, ignored.
"There was never a question about using Sarah," owner Mark Cuban says. "Sarah has always done a great job. She relates well to everyone. She follows through and gets the job done. The moment I heard that Gregg was leaving, I promoted Sarah. I didn't care about her age, gender or anything other than her qualifications. It wasn't even a consideration. What's not to love about her?"
A year after becoming the boss, her job hasn't changed much. She still has to work with the players and the media and act as an intermediary between the two. But she's comfortable now, which is good for her and for those who might follow in her path.
"You know, I'm such a dreamer," Melton says. "I had predecessors. The three women that I know in PR were huge mentors for me. Knowing that they were doing what I always wanted to do gave me more motivation to work hard and get this job. It made me realize that it was possible. Now that I have the job, others will call me and ask me how I did things or how I got involved. Honestly, that's the greatest gift that I can have. That I can help these girls who want to do what I'm doing, that's the best thing. A girl from the Pacers who went on her first road trip last year, she called me first to ask me about my first trip. I was so happy to help her out. It kinda made me teary-eyed. "
This may not be the biggest bicycle store in the city, but it is definitely the best place for a serious bicyclist to find equipment and expert advice. The Seattle-based retailer has built a reputation for quality outdoor equipment and carries a good variety of bikes and biking gear suited for the spandex set. They carry clothing for biking in the heat, for wet weather and cold weather, gear more suited to Northern climes, bicycle racks and camping equipment. The staff is knowledgeable and incredibly helpful to novice and expert alike. Besides biking, you can pick up food, gadgets and gear to help you climb mountains someplace outside Texas. And, if your privates hurt when you bike, they have seats that will fix that. We were thankful.
This one was tough. As you'd imagine, there are plenty of worthy candidates on a team that was out of the A.L. West pennant race shortly after returning from spring training. Or was it shortly before heading to spring training? Well, whatever. Palmeiro beat out John Rocker, Carl Everett and Hideki Irabu--all solid additions to the club if you ask us. Despite being just two years shy of his 40th birthday, Palmeiro put up some pretty impressive power numbers this season and managed to maintain his sanity in a clubhouse that went the way of Big Nurse's Cuckoo Ward months (if not years) ago. And if that wasn't good enough, well, the man is in a Viagra commercial. 'Nough said.
If it's anything other than, "It makes me wish television had never been invented," no need to check their pay stub.
Swear to God we didn't want to do this again, especially since we're conflicted now that Mike Rhyner, Gordon Keith and Dave Lane are (very infrequent) contributors to these pages. But what the f-bomb. After all, what other local radio station carries every single sports-related news conference live, in its entirety? Where else can you find a suicidal (fake) Jerry Jones begging, "No funeral," the day after his Cowboys lost to the Houston Texans? Where else can you find Michael Irvin and Troy Aikman each week during football season, willing to dish out a few hard knocks of their own? And where else can you find the Overcusser, who will foul-mouth a millionaire jock to death to see whether he will fight through it or join in the fun? The Ticket gets it (big time--right, Jerry), commingling sports-talk with a little entertainment news (what's the dif?) and other effluvia geared toward men but attracting a sizable audience of women as well; it's guys' night out all the time, and so be it. We're partial to Dunham and Miller and The Hardline--and, frankly, we're vying for our own 7-11 p.m. show, because we wanna get stuck in that revolving door--and are coming around to BAD Radio, which isn't so, well, bad. And we know your dad loves Norm, but he creeps us out just a little bit.
Seriously, you come up with someone better. Lord knows we tried, but every time someone crops up we sorta dig, they skip town--and we know Dale couldn't crawl anywhere, much less skip. Frankly, we wanted to give this to Steve Atkinson, but now that he done moved we're stuck with that Stuart Scott starter kit on 'FAA; look, man, you are not funny. Don't get us started on the guys at Channel 5--it's called humility, Newy, look into it--and Mike D. at Fox might be the "best in the game," only we don't play by those rules. So we're stuck with Dale, the richest man in local sports--A-Rod excepted--and certainly the man with the richest blood stream; dude looks like an éclair these days. But we could do worse than get saddled with a cranky, cagey veteran who's sick to death of being sick to death of disingenuous owners, spoiled-brat players and lousy teams that still overachieve (the Cowboys should have been 2-14 last season, face it) despite having no talent, drive, ambition, discipline, younameit. And how can you not love a guy willing to stick it to Mark Cuban, the only guy with worse hair than Dale? Cuban's got the winning team, for God's sake, and still Dale won't play dead for the guy; Cuban's got balls of gold (24 carat, says his jeweler), Hansen's got balls of steel. In his head.
So the guy dresses like the drummer in a garage band, sticks his foot in his mouth every time a camera or tape recorder is rolling and gets fined the equivalent of the debts of some small countries for his behavior at games. The good news is that he's dug into his deep pockets and financed the comeback of a team that was all but invisible before he came along. The players are good and getting better, and the extra large coaching staff knows its stuff. Even more impressive is the fact they've begun to perform like guys who appreciate the fella for whom they're working. Even if he is a psycho billionaire. Which brings us to...
The poor sumbitch. He's already a sure Hall of Fame inductee, and sometime later this season he's going to usurp Walter Payton's stranglehold on the NFL's all-time leading rusher throne. And yet the guy always has this terrible, foreboding look on his face. But wouldn't you? Wouldn't you perfect that look if you had won three Super Bowls with the likes of Troy Aikman and Michael Irvin only to be later cast in with a lot of nobodies and never-will-bes? Can't you just hear Emmitt when they told him that Quincy Carter would be the starting quarterback again? Wait, what did you say, Jerry? As a final note, we suggest that "Taps" play before and after every Pokes game.
We're actually toying with the idea of renaming this the Mark Cuban Award, or at least giving him a subdivision to call his own. Either way, Cubes is the man when it comes to drawing unnecessary attention to himself. That Dairy Queen thing? Nothing but an appetizer before the main course: Tim Rogers' balls. When Cuban threatened to slice the "fucking nuts" off of the D magazine editor--Rogers wanted to do a blurb on Cuban's fiancee--he locked up a lifetime achievement award in this category. Way to go, Mark, we're proud of you. But when you graduate to kicking the homeless, be sure you give us enough of a heads-up to send Jim Schutze out for a column. We suggest he spend less time playing Mark Soprano and more time helping his coach-GM find a center. Which brings us to...
At press time, there was no word on Manute Bol's religious affiliation, so Shawn Bradley takes the award. (Also, Bol was an inch too tall.) Bradley is entering his 10th NBA season and seventh with the Mavericks. Dallas, if you didn't know it before, you're a lucky town. This guy runs the floor with grace, has soft hands, an even temper and a mean jumper...or something. Actually, he has nothing. And his ability to dunk the ball is breathtaking. That's something you don't see much in the NBA--dunking--so it's good to have a guy who can throw one down. What's that you say? He misses them sometimes? He gets blocked sometimes? Mere details. If he knocked on our door, we'd convert. Or buy him a shot.
He's semi-retired, now appearing only in the Saturday editions, but for an engaging writing style, insight and dead-on perspective on local sports, he's still at the head of the class. Starting at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, then moving to the Dallas Times Herald and finally the News, Luksa has seen and written about it all. A winner of multiple awards, he's watched the transformation of the city's sports landscape for four decades--from Tom Landry and the Cowboys' 1960 inaugural season to the recent emergence of the Dallas Mavericks. He makes the price of a Saturday paper a real bargain. Unless you turn to the editorial pages; then you might be due a refund.
Dallas' first public golf course, the place where Lee Trevino got his start, stands as a sharp reminder that city government can sometimes get things right. With its two courses and extensive range and teaching facility, Tenison is an everyman's country club. It hosts 36 holes at two price levels. Tenison Highlands was refurbished in 2000 with five new lakes, smoother greens and 32 new bunkers and sports fees in line with its upper-end conditioning. Tenison Glen is a hilly, creekside affair more or less unchanged since 1914. You can hike this venerable course Monday through Thursday for a very democratic $14.
Something special happened in South Dallas last winter. First, coach Leonard Bishop's boys' basketball team completed its season with a 40-0 record and the state Class AAAA championship. But that was just the beginning of the good news. Soon after, the growing list of national schoolboy rankings, led by the prestigious USA Today and Prep Hoops USA polls, added to the accolades. Lincoln became the first Dallas schoolboy team ever to be selected the No. 1 team in the nation.
It may no longer be the newest venue in the area, but the 50,000-seat masterpiece is still the most enjoyable spot for the sports fan to visit. It's comfy, clean, fan-friendly and, face it, you can't beat fresh summer night air when you're watching a game. Often called one of the best parks in the big leagues, it's fun even when the hosting Rangers bullpen is off its game, which, we know, means three out of every four on a homestand. (Insert your generic Rangers pitching joke here.) But the reason the park is so wonderful is that there is so much more to it than the baseball being played on the field (much to Tom Hicks' eternal gratitude). There's the Game Baseball Museum and Children's Learning Center, the Grand Slam Gift Shop, Bullpen Café and Friday's Front Row Grill, plenty of rest rooms and concession stands. Opened in 1994, The Ballpark remains as much an attraction as the games played inside. Check that: more so.
We could suggest lots of places where they like skaters, where they even charge them admission. But what the hell is that? It's not skating unless somebody in a blue uniform chases you. Grab your board and get downtown! Start at the Masonic Temple at Harwood and Young streets for a backside nosegrind on the long sloping ledges in front; head two blocks downhill to City Hall plaza for a nollie heelflip in front of the mayor; kick-flip across the police memorial and past the fake cows; wind up at the best of the best, the front steps of The Dallas Morning News at 508 Young St. The railings there are perfect for a nice long feeblegrind or two: That's the most you'll get in before about 50 rent-a-cops come charging out the door with big-ass shields, helmets and baseball bats. Your board is your weapon, dude!
Tightfisted locals who carp about the upgrading of Dallas' scruffy municipal courses would probably have heart failure if they saw what Euless calls public golf. City-owned-and-run Texas Star is without a doubt one of the best munies in the nation, with fees almost to match. In Euless, every man (and woman) is king, which in this old game means mirror-smooth Bent grass greens, doting attendants at the clubhouse and a layout with some serious pizzazz. Cut from the Trinity River lowlands, the 7,000-yard Texas Star course wanders through untouched native grasses and dense oak forests. These "native areas" are in play on nearly every hole, and off limits for ball hawking should you decide to visit them. Add an abundance of picturesque water hazards and you have what professional course critics call "resistance to scoring." In other words, bubba, bring a buttload of balls.
Chest-deep in a swimming pool, no one can see you sweat. No one can see the flab flopping around either, which is another benefit of water aerobics, the fastest-growing form of exercise for the gym-weary boomer crowd. Tricia Moon's classes--ongoing at the DISD pool on Hermosa at Peavy and at the White Rock Athletic Club--combine high-energy aerobics, underwater weight and resistance training, some tai chi, a little kickboxing (so much easier underwater) and even a bit of go-go dancing. Moon keeps classes lively with a steady patter of jokes and encouraging words. Watching her go through the moves (at 43, she's all leg and lean muscle) is motivation to keep pushing when the urge is to dog-paddle. For three summers, Moon has led a popular (and addictive) Saturday-morning class at Rowlett's Wet Zone water park, where water exercisers jog, skip and leap against the strong current of the "river" pool. It's like fighting a riptide, and it's a killer workout. That class starts again next May.
So, it's pricey, but where else can you jog or walk on a shock-absorbing one-mile outdoor track set against 30 acres of lush pecan, red oak and cedar trees? Where else are the ducks, geese and squirrels so relaxed in their natural habitat they actually risk asking you for spare change? Face it, there is no place like the Cooper Fitness Center, which is why there is still a waiting list to get in. But with its two heated 25-yard, six-lane pools, its 4,200-square-foot weight training area, its sizable cardiovascular equipment area, its indoor basketball and outdoor tennis courts, its multiple saunas, steam rooms and whirlpools, its close association with the Cooper guest lodge, spa and clinic--hell, it just might be worth the wait.
Spring training is a relaxed atmosphere where the players talk candidly and the reporters wear sunscreen and bad Hawaiian shirts. Some of the conversations are considered off the record. Some, not all. During prescribed media hours, Rangers second baseman Mike Young and third baseman Hank Blalock engaged in a conversation with some members of the media, among them a bad, bad person from the
Observer. The topic: Howard Stern's interview with Limp Bizkit front man Fred Durst. Durst said that he had gone out with pop icon Britney Spears for a spell. He also claimed, over the course of their courtship, that he "ate her ass." "He ate her ass?" Blalock asked incredulously. "That's what he said," Young responded. "Fred Durst is a cool dude." Truer words were never spoken.
Sports columnist Gerry Fraley is everything the city columnists for The Dallas Morning News are not: fiercely opinionated, wry, relevant and readable. He is unafraid of taking on local icons--for years, he wrote that local legend Pudge Rodriguez was overrated--and he always provides facts to back up his takes. His "Just Venting" column, which runs on Page 2 of the DMN's sports section, is something we look forward to reading every Tuesday. Our favorite gibe yet: "Guard Larry Allen threw the first no-hitter of the season in the Cowboys' exhibition opener Saturday." Maybe you had to see the game to appreciate it, but we blew coffee out of our nose on that one. Which is a compliment.
When the war in Iraq began, both Mavs point guards made comments that suggested they were very much against the war. Canadian Nash received no grief from fans. It was suggested on radio call-in shows, however, African-American Van Exel be booed at games. Now, if you don't think that doesn't have at least something to do with their skin color, then you don't know which country was fighting Iraq. We
love it when sports fans talk politics. It's almost as painful as listening to Mayor Laura Miller talk sports.
So many qualified candidates for this award, but we're partial to our own here at the Observer, so the fix was/is in. During spring training in Surprise, Arizona, our sports columnist, John Gonzalez, attempted to interview Ranger Carl Everett in the clubhouse for a feature he was writing. Everett, who had never heard of the Observer, gave Gonzalez a hard time about his credentials. Carl was being Carl. Gonzalez, who we're pretty sure is mentally retarded and ought to wear one of those safety helmets, took that as a personal affront to his professionalism and fired back. Gonz was being Gonz. Long story short, Mount Everett erupted and asked our intrepid reporter if he wanted to box. It got uglier from there--the two loudly screamed expletives at each other while a pack of reporters and ballplayers watched, mouths agape. It was a lot like that incident a few years ago in which Chargers quarterback Ryan Leaf cursed a reporter--only this time, the reporter cursed back. And, unfortunately, this time there wasn't any video footage to commemorate the occasion. Bummer.
Football commentators like to remind people that there are only two current Dallas Cowboys who were a part of the team's early- and mid-'90s Super Bowl wins: Darren Woodson and Larry Allen. Actually, we think there's only one and a half of them, because Allen is half the player he used to be. Now that's not all his fault. Apparently, Allen is the victim of a physiological defect that causes his ankle to "puff" like a well-made tempura batter. His puffy ankle is why he struggled through the early part of the season, we're told. We think it's great that afflictions normally associated with pregnancy or water retention are now being claimed by 300-pound professional athletes. Next, Allen misses the fourth quarter of the Thanksgiving game because his nipples are sore.
Remember the photo that appeared in your inbox this summer? No, not the one with the horse and car battery. The ones of two Dallas Mavs, Dirk Nowitzki and Steve Nash, out on the town, tippling themselves silly. Who among us hasn't regretted being in front of a camera lens after seven too many cocktails, right? But for the N&N boys to be so fully looped that they didn't immediately destroy the camera--that's just awesome.
Have you seen those photos of Bill Parcells stalking the Dallas Cowboys sidelines during practice? The ones where he's wearing a big old-woman hat, oversized shorts tucked under his man breasts and a big floppy T-shirt tucked into said shorts? All he needs is a wig and he's Jonathan Winters.
There are exactly seven certainties in the local sports world: On the whole, Rangers pitching will suck; Dale Hansen will be friendlier on the air than off; Mike Modano will have hot women near him when in public; Steve Nash will hit that clutch free throw; Darren Woodson will do the right thing; Mark Cuban will say the wrong thing; and the incredible porntasticity of Dave Tippett's Corey Pavin/Elliot Gould (circa
M*A*S*H) mustache will make our heart go pitter-patter. No trendy goatee or mutton chops for this man. Just a straight-up shot of lip hair. Bless his heart.
Really, this award ought to be a lifetime achievement sort of thing, and it should probably be retired hereafter, because Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones is just so good at lying that no one is going to be able to beat him. That said, he had a career year in this category. First he told us how he was fully behind quarterback Quincy Carter. By midseason, Chad Hutchinson was in the mix. He made a point of telling us that Dave Campo was his head coach. Then Campo got the ax. He paraded Emmitt Smith in front of the world and praised the running back when he became the all-time leading rusher. He said that he hoped Smith would be a Cowboy forever. Then he watched Smith head off to the Arizona Cardinals, of all unsavory places. And now? Now he's saying that he's going to stay out of new head coach Bill Parcells' way. Yeah. We believe you, Jerry, we really do.
OK, OK, so he sucked in the playoffs. So what? Who the hell wants to watch hockey in the summer, anyway? No, see, Marty Turco did us all a favor. Besides, everybody stumbles here and there, right? Just look at what the Stars goalie did during the regular season, though. Turco was a finalist for the Vezina Trophy, given to the league's best goalie, an award he probably should have won after he posted a 1.72 goals-against average, the lowest by any goalie in the modern era. He was also named a second-team postseason All-Star. All fine accomplishments for a guy who before this past season had never started a playoff game, and all that without trying to bribe a cop for a billion dollars.
Uh, let's see now, the other candidates were: Buck Showalter, who tried mightily but all for naught; Dave Tippett, who had a fine season but was a bit boring, to tell the truth; and Dave Campo, who...well, he coached the Pokes for a while--let's just leave it at that. So congrats, Nellie, you da man by default. Actually, Nelson would have won anyway. The gregarious Mavericks coach led his charges to the NBA Western Conference Finals, the first time Dallas had advanced that far since 1988. He did that despite the fact he had no interior players worth mentioning and an owner who refused to re-sign him until after the season. He did that, and he was congenial, too, always joking with the media and playing to the crowd. He's our kind of guy. Glad you're coming back, Nellie.
Last season, Mavericks star Dirk Nowitzki was laid up with an injury. During that period, a reporter from a very well-respected national magazine decided that he wanted to talk to Nowitzki about international basketball--a story that most every sports writer addressed some
two years ago. This reporter, being particularly dim and oblivious, also decided to interview Nowitzki after a game instead of during practice hours, which is when the players are 1) more accessible and 2) more affable. This reporter waited more than an hour after the game had ended for Nowitzki to materialize. Most would have taken the hint. This reporter did not. Undeterred, this reporter finally got a moment alone with Nowitzki before asking a question that went something like, "Well, Dirk, how have foreign players changed the NBA?" Nowitzki looked down at this reporter and with a straight, serious face replied, "Oh, that's a good question." Without missing a beat, he immediately gave the reporter a thumbs down sign, stuck his tongue out and, like a child (albeit a very, very funny child), made a "thpppffff" noise.
Our friend has asked us to go on a camping trip with him. We are too embarrassed to tell him that we are scared of the bears/ticks/spiders/mosquitoes/dark, and that we, like Glenn Frey, belong to the city. So we suck it up and go to REI, a place where we can buy so much cool camping gear that we can actually feel like a man again. But that's not all REI offers. If you need cycling wear, fly-fishing stuff or any number of other outdoorsy gadgets, this is the place to go.
The players who show up for Glencoe's all-day Saturday runs are serious, arriving at 9 a.m. with coolers and lawn chairs, digging in for the long haul. The games are just as serious, which makes sense, since if you lose, you lose the court. So don't bring that weak stuff up in here. We say this, because we tried to and left a couple of hours later with wounded pride and a Spalding tattoo on our forehead.
With Frisco now home to so many new and used Dallasites, it is becoming more likely that those of us who fear to tread north of LBJ Freeway will be forced to make the trek someday. To comfort us when we get there, at least during spring and summer, are the freshly transplanted Frisco RoughRiders, the AA farm team for the ever-struggling Texas Rangers. Don't let streets like Tom Hicks Drive and Gaylord Parkway put you off. A handsome stadium that looks as much like a stage set as it does a ballpark puts its capacity 10,800 fans close to the field. Players sign autographs before the game, tickets are reasonable, and a huge mascot that bears a passing resemblance to a prairie dog is even fun to watch. What's more, the team consistently plays good ball, which is more than can be said for its brother in the bigs.
We know, we know: Alex Rodriguez has a $252 million contract, and for that kind of money, he should be able to play all four positions. Whatever. The oldest, most-played, least-interesting gripe about the Texas Rangers is the national media's bitching about A-Rod's contract. Bottom line is that he's also a perennial All-Star, consistently one of the game's top five all-around players. What's even better is that now he has a stellar young group of infielders around him--led by Michael Young, smooth as a pressed shirt, at second base. The corner infielders, Hank Blalock (third base) and Mark Teixeira (first base), should provide the club with hope and home runs for years to come. Now all that's left is a center fielder, a catcher, 11 pitchers...
We here at Best of Dallas Central tried to organize a road trip to Dodge City, Kansas, to catch the final game of this Fort Worth-based minor-league (United States Basketball League) expansion team. Too bad we missed it. The Rim Rockers lost 146-107. It would have been the perfect game to watch, because we wanted to see a team that was so bad it would be entertaining. The Rim Rockers were certainly that. They finished their first season with two wins, 28 losses. Next year, when you see the season-ticket holders in the front row cackling and whooping and cheering every bricked three-point shot, that'd be us. Hey, we were Mavericks fans in the '90s--we
love awful ball.
Once again, this doughnut of a team (big hole in the middle) proved that what it lacks in muscle it makes up for in heart. Led by the clutch play of Nick Van Exel (see below), the Mavs proved once again they're the best ticket in town.
The Dallas Mavs owner often has doled out his cash in stupid ways (see Shawn Bradley, Raef LaFrentz, et al.), but the Fallen Patriot Fund, established in April by The Mark Cuban Foundation, is money well spent. (He kicked off the fund with a $1 million donation, and he matches all donations dollar for dollar up to 1 million bucks.) Designed to help families of military personnel killed or seriously injured in Iraq, the fund is a great example of putting your money where your mouth is.
The Bronco Bowl Entertainment Center, a family-fun staple for decades, passed away in August after battling a lengthy illness. Best known for its concerts, the complex was once one of the primary Texas outposts for televised bowling matches back in the day, and continued on as the premier place to rack up a few frozen turkeys until its death. It also had an extensive assortment of video arcade games, air hockey tables and Pop-A-Shot stations, as well as a wide variety of beverages that would get a man as big as 325 pounds "drunker than Cooter Brown," according to a longtime fan of the establishment. The Bronco Bowl Entertainment Center is survived by memories of $10 parking fees and a Home Depot.
One of the best things about Brookhaven's jogging track is the lack of crowds that afflict that other top jogging spot, White Rock Lake, so keep this one just between us. Brookhaven's two-mile course skirts the perimeter of the campus, and nearly half of it has a rubberized surface, so it's tender on the joints. The track winds through small patches of woods and past the school's athletic fields, offering a few gentle inclines to get that heart rate up. Better still, there are emergency call boxes along the route in the event you are: A) over 40, B) out of shape and C) too stupid to consult your doctor before beginning a running regimen.
After Nick Van Exel's gutsy performances in the playoffs, ESPN's Marc Stein asked Mark Cuban about NVE's big-game aptitude. "You can't say enough about Nick," Cuban replied. "I don't know how he walks around. I'm sure he has to get specially tailored pants, because he's scraping the ground every game." In other words, if you take the shots with the game on the line, it proves you have big balls. We couldn't agree (or be disturbed) more.
The area's best non-high school football team does not play at Texas Stadium. (Gee, ya think?) It is not the SMU Mustangs. (Gosh, ya sure?) No, the area's best footballers lay claim to Birdville Stadium in North Richland Hills. The Dallas Diamonds, the all-woman semipro football team--led by rookie linebacker/fullback Jessica Springer (the 5-foot-9, 210-pound can of whupass)--has pasted some of its early-season opponents, especially the Missouri Prowlers, whom the homegirls have beaten twice by a combined score of 138-0. Hey, Bill Parcells, you got a scout at their games yet? Couldn't hurt.
Sure, it's no longer brand-spanking-new, and the team that calls it home stinks, but the 49,166-seat stadium is, far and away, the most enjoyable spot for the sports fan to visit. It's comfy and clean, fan friendly and you can't beat the fresh summer air. And, when the Texas Rangers start muffing easy ground balls and the bullpen is doing its el foldo, there's still plenty to see and do. Visit the Legends of the Game Baseball Museum, Children's Learning Center or Friday's Front Row Grill. And the cold beer at the concession stands can quickly take your mind off the team's being in last place--again.
Since we work at the
Observer--the unholiest of unholies--talking about God can get a little tricky. No need to pop up on his screen, you understand, lest he take note of all the
bad things we've done and issue a collective smiting. Still, we're pretty sure the Big Guy has some other sinners ahead of us on his "to do" list. Chief among them: Deion Sanders. Prime Time recently was taken to court by a Dallas mechanic named Phil Compton, who claimed that Sanders paid only $1,500 of a more-than-$4,200 bill for repairs done on a 1961 convertible. Sanders, who never misses an opportunity to show that he's "down with the Lord," handed Compton a check and said, "Praise Jesus...I follow what in my heart I'm told to pay." The implication, obviously, was that the son of God gives great discounts, but only if you're in his good graces. More remarkably, a judge ruled in favor of Sanders in the case. The end result? A proposed 11th commandment: Thou shalt not pay a lot for that muffler.
It looked fairly bleak for the Dallas Mavericks after the Sacramento Kings pantsed them in Game 1. Here we go again, most thought, remembering the similar drubbings that occurred at the hands of those same Kings in last year's playoffs. Even we gave in and predicted the Mavs would be sent home after five games. And then Dirk Nowitzki and Co. put up 44 in the first quarter of Game 2, on their way to 83 for the half. To put this in perspective, most Eastern Conference games topped out at a few points shy of that mark
after four quarters. Only our wedding day tops this on our list of all-time greatest moments. We're not even remotely kidding.
For less than seven bucks, it's possible to revisit that hardwood heaven that was vital to middle school social life. Roller-skating lives on, complete with spinning colored lights and a smooth-voiced DJ, at the White Rock Skate Center. Skates are included in the admission price, although patrons are welcome to bring their own (we've been showing off our pair of pink Puma "Roller Kitties"), provided they've had no concrete exposure, which will mar the rink floor. We're still shocked, though, at what little effort we used to put forth as youngsters, considering how sore and bruised we are after one night of rollin'. Parents can even skate free Sunday afternoons when they bring the little ones. A little advice, though: Don't skate too close to your kids; this could be the day of their first "couple skate," and you could end up on their list if you jeopardize their shot at a rolling slow-jam with the crush-of-the-week. The center also offers a damn fine snack bar with requisite pump-cheese nachos, and the refs put on quite a show mid-rink with their rubber-legged roller dance moves. Exercise, entertainment and memories await those who pass through the White Rock's doors, so strap on those familiar brown and orange wheels and hit the rink. Don't worry if it's been awhile; we're still known to cling to the walls when we get a bit shaky...and our apologies to the small child we careened into during a crazed attempt to get off the floor before the speed-skate.
There are players, and then there are playas. Word. Reggie Swinton is one of the latter. No, he's not that great a football player--seven catches for 63 yards last year is hardly impressive. But the man can straight rhyme. He's like one of the Fat Boys, only with slightly less talent. Shortly after the season ended, Swinton's first rap album dropped: Whatcha Gone Do? On wax, Swinton addressed socially pressing issues such as cars, hos, pimps and freaking. Thank you, Reggie, for going where no other rappers dared go. You kept it real, dawg. Unfortunately for the Cowboys, Swinton's CD was a highlight (maybe even the highlight) of the season. Well, nowhere to go from there but up. But we were wondering: Do you think new head coach Bill Parcells bumps Whatcha Gone Do? in his ride? Yeah, probably.
If you're the type who always wants to be first in the know about everything, then you'd better study up on Carly Patterson and Hollie Vise--because you'll probably be hearing a lot about them at next year's Olympic Games in Athens. Patterson and Vise, both 15, each train at the Plano-based World Olympics Gymnastics Academy, one of the country's premier gymnastics training grounds. In the recent World Gymnastics Championships, the pair helped the U.S. women win the team gold medal for the first time, as well as each pulling in an individual medal (Patterson a silver on the all-around, Vise a gold in the uneven bars). They're already heroes to the academy's current students--and an inspiration for more girls to follow in their footsteps.
Watching bad baseball is not our favorite pastime. Still, every now and again, usually after many beers or lotsa drugs, we find ourselves watching the Rangers. And, every now and again, we're thankful that we did. June 19, Texas at Oakland, was such a day. That afternoon, while covering second base on a steal attempt, All-Star Alex Rodriguez took his eye off the ball for a split second. Hilarity ensued. Rather than catching the throw from Einar Diaz with his glove, A-Rod stopped it with his face.
Don't try that at home... Now we would never wish serious injury on anyone, which is why we were happy to see that no permanent damage was done to Rodriguez. The only thing bruised was his ego. Which, in turn, made it OK for us to laugh. Again and again. Even months later. And probably in the future, too. Thanks, pal.
Let's be honest: There's no way we can be trusted in this category anymore. We're too conflicted. Key members of the Best of Dallas crew are friends with Ticket personalities. Pop-culture columnist Robert Wilonsky spends as much time preparing for his intermittent Hard Line appearances as he does answering Marvel Comics fanboy e-mails. We'll just say that our favorite hour of the day on sports radio is from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. on The Ticket, when we get 10 snippets of the day's best discussions, bits and interviews from all Ticket personalities, so that's the show we're awarding this honor. Besides, Mike Rhyner will just make more jokes about this paper's strip-club and phone-sex ads no matter who wins, so why bother? Oh, speaking of Rhyner: Dude, SugarDaddy69 left a message in your QuestPersonals voice-mail box that you might want to check out--he sounds delicious.
For years we've been beaten down with how "in tune" the Mavericks brass is with foreign basketball. They have contacts in former Iron Curtain states and Mediterranean hovels. Yes, they are omnipotent and omnipresent when it comes to overseas hoops. That's what we were told. Enter Antoine Rigaudeau, a midseason pickup whom almost no one, save Don and Donnie Nelson, had heard of. Rigaudeau, who's French, came to Dallas after playing the past six seasons in Italy. He reminded us a lot of the Spurs' Manu Ginobili, only with a lot less talent. Rigaudeau appeared in 11 games and averaged 1.5 points. Better yet, in one game, he drove the baseline only to air-ball a layup, prompting color commentator Bob Ortegel to quip: "That's the best play he's made as a Maverick." Sad but true. Which is why we're giving him this award; he garnered one more accolade than expected.
There's a lot to like about Christie's: The food's pretty good, the multiroom layout gives you a sense the place is larger than it really is, and the TVs carry most any game you wanna see. But we like Christie's for the pool tables. Not only can you play for half-price during happy hour on most days, they're not the typical bar short tables (the ones that you pop 75 cents into; the ones about as big as your dorm fridge). Come for the beer, eat the food and be sure to play with your stick. It's encouraged.
Seems like the guy's been around since the invention of electricity, but he's still the best, even if he does skip out too often to host a charity golf tournament or whatever it is he does when absent. While the Dallas area has a generous helping of quality sports anchors, Hansen separates himself from the pack simply by being Dale Hansen. Everyone else gives you the scores and an occasional well-done feature, but Hansen's the guy who shoots from the hip with opinion and even a nice touch of sarcasm now and then. Always keeping things in perspective, his sportscasts never sound like they're originating from the war-torn front lines.
Forget the stats, or lack thereof. Forget the fact that he makes many more millions of dollars than you or your friends or you and your friends combined. Think only of this: Without Chan Ho Park, what would the Texas Rangers medical staff do? The man is a terrible pitcher, sure, but damn if he doesn't keep the trainers and doctors busy and wealthy. From a sore this to a broken that, he's a regular hypochondriac who never misses a chance to go on the disabled list. And good for him. If he's not going to pitch, he may as well contribute in his own special way. Thanks, Chan Ho, from Dr. John Conway (team physician), Jamie Reed (head trainer) and Ray Ramirez (assistant trainer). Without you, their families wouldn't eat.
It's hard to remember now, but before last season, everyone was trying to downplay expectations for the Dallas Mavericks.
Just because they beat Utah in the playoffs doesn't mean they'll do even better this year, prognosticators said. The Mavs shut that talk up quickly when they won their first 14 games to start the season. Now, if only they could go further in the playoffs.
