33=60

Baseball, more than any other sport, is a game that honors its numbers.  Fans memorize the back of trading cards and recite the record books.   We can recall decades-old uniform numbers and love unique ballpark dimensions.  As kids we kept scorecards, pored over box scores every summer morning, and grabbed our calculators to extrapolate stats into season-long projections.  The game has become even more stat-heavy with the proliferation  of advanced metrics and the ease of internet research.  Today's relevant numbers, though, are 1,33, and 60.  As in, my #1 favorite player, Baltimore's #33, Eddie Murray, turns, 60 years old today. 

Number crunchers are often dismissive of Murray, calling him a classic compiler, consistently posting pretty good stats, while staying around long enough to finally reach milestones like 500 homers and 3000 hits.  I'm not sure when consistency became a bad word; I'll take Murray's Baltimore production any day.  Over the 13 years he played in Baltimore  (including his 60+ games in his brief 1996 return) Eddie's stats per 162 games included 93 runs, 31 doubles, 29 homers, 105 RBIs, and only 83 strikeouts.  Perhaps not the mammoth numbers of steroid bloat, but damn strong.  He was the 1977 Rookie of the Year, a consistent (there's that word again) MVP vote getter, and earned several Gold Gloves.    He was dangerous when it counted the most (19 career grand slams, among the all-time leaders in sacrifice flies, two homers in the Series clincher in '83).  Former O's lefty Mike Flanagan called Murray, "the best clutch hitter I saw during the decade we played together."

I'll let the sabermetricians have their say because the sum total of Eddie Murray's  career can not be measured in mere digits found at Baseball-Reference.com. For me, and countless Orioles fans my age, Steady Eddie's legend was measured in many other ways.  Like how loud we could chant "Ed-die, Ed-die, Ed-die!" from Memorial Stadium's upper deck.  Or the immense joy we felt when he answered our chants with a moon shot over the centerfield fence.  His impact was measured by how many kids imitated Eddie's low, leaned-back batting crouch during neighborhood wiffle ball games.  It was measured by the length of his sideburns and the cool poof of his afro.  It was measured by how many of his cards I could acquire for my card binder. 

Sure, I'm viewing Murray through my nostalgic, orange-colored glasses, but he represents an era when my baseball fandom took root.  He represented the Oriole Way, which in those days was not a punchline.  He anchored a line-up that, along with solid pitching and a healthy dose of Magic, capped a brilliant run of excellence with Baltimore's most recent World Series championship.  Murray was feared by opposing pitchers, respected by his teammates, and loved by (most of) the fans.    For a decade, during the latter half of which I fell in love with the game, Eddie Murray was among the baddest men in baseball.  For this, I am forever grateful.  Happy Birthday, Eddie.

Playboy:Really, Truly Just for the Articles Now

2016 has not been kind to our icons.  Several titans have passed since the turn of the calendar-David Bowie, Justice Scalia, Playboy magazine.  Oh sure, Playboy relaunched this month without nudes, but rest assured, it is a Dead Mag Walking. While I applaud innovation, this seems less like innovation and more like limping to the finish line.

For red-blooded, heterosexual American males there was nothing more exhilarating growing up than stumbling upon some elicit stash of Playboys.  (Well, except, you know, that first time you actually got to touch a real boob.) You were immediately grateful that your friend had discovered this magical pile of glossy magazines in some remote corner of his dad's garage and had dared to share this forbidden knowledge with you.  Flipping open that centerfold for the first time sparked the imagination, opening up a whole new world. A new world you wanted to visit ASAP.  You did not know or care who Hugh Hefner was, but it seemed extremely important to know Miss July's turn-ons and future plans.  And that she looked great wearing nothing but earrings.  Playboy played a fundamental, if perhaps dysfunctional role in shepherding millions of boys through puberty.

The flip side, of course, is that Playboy, and the entirety of Hef's lifestyle and empire, can be considered misogynistic, degrading and encouraging the objectification of women.  It was a symbol of excess and inequality.  Playboy paved the way for other, more explicit, magazines which paved the way for dirty movies and the bajillions of  porn sites that clog the internet today.  Unfortunately I'm sure many of these sites mistreat and exploit young women.  Pornography, it can be argued, gives men license to treat women poorly.

However, is it inconceivable that Playboy also helped women find a voice? Were women in the Sixties able to shed labels and stereotypes as they shed their clothes? Did Playboy help bring nudity and sexiness out of the bedroom and into the light? And, if so, is that a good thing?  I am unqualified to answer those questions as I am neither a female, nor an anthropologist.  But I am the father of a young daughter.   I hope that her mother and I can equip her with the right tools and mindset to value herself and make decisions that serve her best.  Television and the internet don't raise her, we do.  Is it hypocritical of me to hope my daughter never aspires to be one of Hef's Girls of the Big 10, while still thinking Playboy serves a useful purpose in American culture?

Which brings me back to Playboy's current relaunch.  I don't lament the change because it means there is one less nudey magazine on the newsstand; except for flipping through the new issue to see the changes, I have not read Playboy or any porn magazine in years.  I lament the fact that an icon feels forced to change.  Be who you are, Playboy!  There is a place for a magazine that caters to the erudite pervs that want soft porn and interviews with world leaders.  Be who you are!  This is like McDonald's pushing salads.  If I have made the decision to walk into McDonald's, I have already made the bargain with myself to eat garbage.  If I want a salad,  I'll go to the produce section of the market.  If I want an Egg McMuffin at three in the afternoon, I'll go to Mickey D's.  Similarly, if I wanted some nudity, a page of dirty jokes and a preview of the upcoming NFL season all in one place I could grab a Playboy.  Until now.  Now I get some articles, some "artsy" photos of scantily clad women and inane style tips. In other words, I get Maxim or Men's Health.

Hef's reps argued that eliminating the nudity  would allow Playboy to move from NSFW to mainstream.  Does anybody really think we'll see Playboy sharing space with People and Reader's Digest in the dentist office magazine rack anytime soon?  Sure, circulation has plummeted.   Maybe because we can get our porn anywhere for free.  Maybe because tastes change.  Making the magazine less explicit will not boost sales.  I predict this relaunch is more Willie Mays wobbling in a Mets uniform, than a brand-saving innovation.

Another icon may be on it's way out, I just think it should go out the way it came in: unapologetic and unashamed. Be who you are, Playboy!

The Evolution of (my hatred for) Jaromir Jagr

I have a confession to make. An admission that might confuse my hockey buddies.  Words so contrary  to anything I previously believed.   Words that I may one day regret,  forcing me to say, "Forgive me Dale Hunter, for I have sinned."  Words 19-year-old me could never have envisioned saying: I no longer despise Jaromir Jagr. In fact, I respect him. 

Twenty-plus years ago, I hated Jaromir Jagr with a white hot fury that should be reserved for people that have actually wronged me.  I hated him in the silly way that crazed sports fans hate people they have never met.  Playing Robin to Mario Lemieux's Batman, Jagr and the rest of the Pittsburgh Penguins regularly systematically dismantled my beloved Washington Capitals throughout the 1990's.  Mario with his loathsome cocky smirk and Mario Jr (an anagram of Jaromir, trivia buffs!) with his girlish mullet flowing freely down the ice. Two pricks in a pod.  Those two responsible for so much of the Capitals hapless April mythology. Those two responsible for so many broken television remotes, flung in disgust at another Penguin goal or Penguin victory. 

It was easy to hate Jagr.  He was sooooo good.  (Seriously, YouTube his highlights.  They are amazing.)  Often at the expense of my team.  Hatred could not diminish the appreciation for Jagr's game, though.  He was the total package.  Big enough to protect the puck in traffic.  Powerful strides to rush end to end, blowing by defenders.  And those hands, bestowed by the hockey gods, enabling him to deke defensemen and goalies as well as any player ever.  Statistically, and to the eye test, Jagr is one of the greatest goal scorers to ever skate.  And my buddies and I cursed him for it every step of the way.  We cursed him because we could only dream of our team having a player so great.

Then, suddenly, in the Summer of 2001, Jagr landed in Washington via a blockbuster trade.  Fans did not know how to react.  It is difficult to turn off the kind of loathing that I reserved for Jaromir Jagr.  As my friend Rob eloquently put it, "Look out, the Devil's come to church."  I remember writing an email to my hockey pals about the trade, but I can't remember my advice.  I'm guessing it was something about rooting for the uniform not the player.  I probably talked about giving  the benefit of the doubt.   Yeah, probably something stupid like that.  Fans didn't want Jagr in Washington.  The irony, of course, is that Jagr did not want to be in Washington, either. 

Whether fair or not, Jagr was often tagged with descriptors like mercurial, brooding, and selfish. I would describe his two-plus years in Washington as underwhelming, wasted, and can-we-just-get-this-over-with.  Jagr's play was not awful in Washington, yet he was not nearly the player he was in Pittsburgh.  Was he unhappy? Was he better suited to be Robin than THE guy that a franchise pinned its hopes on? Were his skills diminishing as he reached age 30?  Don't know, don't care.  I simply know that the player who posted 121 points in his final season in Pittsburgh barely matched that total in his two full seasons as a Capital.  By the middle of the 03-04 season Jagr was dealt to the Rangers in the beginning of the fire sale that led to the dark times.  The forgettable pre-Ovechkin era.  The failed Jagr experiment, including the fact that Caps owner Ted Leonsis had to continue to pay a large portion of Jagr's salary while with the rival Rangers, rekindled the hatred. 

Now, fast forward a decade.  After a stint in the KHL and multiple stops with multiple teams, Jaromir Jagr is enjoying a career renaissance.  The once "mercurial" superstar is seen as one of the game's elder statesman.  He is a solid, if unspectacular player regarded as a leader and mentor.  I don't think he was ever regarded as either while in D.C.  He seems to have grown up.

Witnessing this change in Jaromir Jagr, albeit from afar, has changed my attitude towards him. He is the last active player remaining from his 1990 draft class.  He will soon be 44 years of age.  The level of commitment and preparation required to be NHL- fit at 44 is admirable.  That he has become a veteran mentor to his young Florida Panther teammates is equally commendable.  Had it not been for the NHL's bungling of the John Scott situation, Jagr likely would have stolen the show at last weekend's all-star festivities.  As it was, all of his teammates wanted to skate on a line with him.  He smiled more in one tv interview than he seemingly did in his entire stay in Washington.  Good for him and good for the league.

As for my change of heart about Jagr, have I softened with age?  I hope so; that seems the mature thing to do.  Just like I try not to get angry at the nitwit who can not properly navigate a four-way stop, there is no need for me to hate Jaromir Jagr.  Hate is a seed better left unsown.  I can not root for Jagr; his Panthers could be a formidable playoff roadblock for the Caps.  I will always be unhappy about the damage  Jaromir inflicted on the Caps from outside and from within.  I will, however, appreciate his immense talents and be happy to have watched one of the best to ever play.

Adam Levine is Destroying My Family.

Maroon 5 frontman Adam Levine is destroying my family.  A bold statement, to be sure, but consider the evidence.  My wife is infatuated with him and he is poisoning my daughter's brain with his dangerous, insipid lyrics.  This doughy, fortyish father may be no match for you, Levine, but make no mistake, you are my new nemesis.

I am not bothered that my wife has celebrity crushes; most all of us have them (Call me, Mary Louise Parker.) Yet Adam Levine is a puzzler.  His voice is annoying; his high-pitched whine an assault on the ears.  He's boastful. Moves like Jagger? You should be so lucky.  And isn't he so cool with his stubbly beard and carefully curated bedhead?  He kinda looks dirty, if you ask me.  Are we even sure he wears deodorant?  Of course, when I mention him looking dirty, my wife looks away and mumbles something about, "yeah, the right kind of dirty."  Even walking through the mall Adam taunts me, his giant four-foot-tall head staring seductively at me from the Proactiv advertisement.  Whatever.  Perhaps I am just jealous, with my voice like an out of tune foghorn and my moves like William "The Refrigerator" Perry.  Do I think if Adam rolled up in his douchewagon that Amanda would really hop in and ride off into the sunset? No, but let's keep him on the West Coast just in case.

The more problematic reason to loath Mr. Maroon 5 is that my seven-year-old daughter knows all the lyrics to his tawdry songs.  I like songs with no ambiguity in the lyrics. If Bad Company's "Feel Like Makin' Love" or Madonna's "Like a Virgin" come on the radio, I know to flip the channel.  But with my lyrical impairment, I sometimes don't pay enough attention or recognize the trouble until I hear my daughter singing along. 

Saturday, on a family road trip, Grace was singing along to Maroon 5's "Sugar".  I was daydreaming, watching the scenery fly by at 70 MPH, until I hear Levine (and my seven-year-old) singing, "I want that red velvet. I want that sugar sweet. Don't let nobody touch it, unless that somebody's me."  Whoa, Doctor!  I looked, wide-eyed, at my wife and mouthed, "Vagina.  He's talking about a vagina.  He ain't talking about a  cupcake, he's talking about a VAGINA!"  Now, I understand Grace doesn't understand the subtext.  I also understand that most songs contain sexual innuendo.  After all, most male rock stars probably got into music to get laid.  That doesn't mean I want Grace singing along to poetic euphemisms for "down there."  Most importantly, I know my radio has an off switch.  I considered turning it off and never turning it back on lest Grace be subjected to someone crooning about a "honey pot" or "love spot."  Instead I switched over to another station, one playing AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long", which is just a quaint song about dancing, right?  Right?

I know this is just the beginning of an uphill battle.  As Grace gets older, it will grow harder to filter content.  Amanda will continue to swoon at Maroon 5's silly songs.  Be warned Sexy Rock Star Boy: I will never stop trying to protect this house.  STAY AWAY FROM MY FAMILY, ADAM LEVINE!