Isaiah Thomas may be 5'10" but he has a 6 '10" ego. Can't fit in with LeBron, whines about Coach Lue and has made it clear that he is not going to come off the bench as a Laker. Isaish, that cute little face is not going to help you get any love from your coaches and GM's if you become a pain in the ass.
Cav's got better. George Hill is a professional with a capital P, steady in all areas. LeBron will love him, and we know it's all about the King in Cleveland. The Lakers will regret giving up Nance. He may not be a shooter, but he is a scorer. He can also defend three positions and rebound. Hood is also a young addition, and I've always thought lefties have an edge.
Boston helped themselves by acquiring Greg Monroe. Monroe is a solid 5 who can score, and defends reasonably well. I can see Monroe at the 5 and Horford at the 4. .
My Warriors abstained, going with the guys they have. Jordon Bell needs to get back pronto.
Lakers are drooling over Paul George. I'm guessing their interest in LeBron is a smokescreen.
The Kings cleared cap space and got rid of Papagianis, who had the foot speed of a tortoise. Iman Schmpart is not that old and if he could stay healthy (certainly not a given), he could be part of the young King's guns.
Happy to see D Wade back with the Heat. I don't think it is just ceremonial. Wade is 38 and has still got game.
ETC: Football news that the 49ers signed Jimmy Garoppolo to a five year contract for $137,5 million, which is 7.5 million more that Tom Brady whose understudy Jimmy G was for a number of years. Learning from the Master??? Given Garoppolo's performance in the last four games with the 49ers at the end of the season, it appears that the young QB learned well. However, with a capital H,
this does not add up to any track record. The amount seems absurd given we have no idea how Jimmy will perform over a season. I get it, that the 49ers, evaluating, came to the conclusion that this would not be a gamble. I hope they are right. I'm a 49ers fan. But, something, about this amount of money bothers me. It reminds me of the NBA some years back allowing teams to sign high school players to any amount of money team wished. In a number of case, these contracts were larger than proven vets, such as Michael Jordan. It is not exactly the same, I grant you, but what if the young QB
stumbles? Then what? Cross our fingers this doesn't happen. Amen.
Musings about Life: I am deeply offended by General Kelly, the White House Chief of Staff defending White House staff secretary, Rob Porter, a wife beater. (The evidence is overwhelming.) This coming off a number of deeply offensive statements Kelly previously made such as saying the Dreamers were "too lazy to get off their asses." Lazy? Lazy? Give me a break! The vast majority of these kids are studying hard in high school or college or working and paying taxes and struggling to succeed. You know where these Dreamers get their work ethic, General? They get their work ethic from their parents, illegal immigrants who pick our fruits and vegetable in the blazing sun, who mow lawns and haul trash and nail shingles, and wash the dishes in restaurants for peanuts, jobs unemployed whites don't want or won't do. Take a survey of whites if you don't believe it. And, out of their hard earned money, these immigrants, parents of the Dreamers, send a portion of their meager pay back home to their families in Mexico and other central American countries. Who the *uck are the lazy ones?
This is a NFL poem, but it is about much more
Joe Kapp By Tom Meschery
For years I've enjoyed telling the story
about Joe Kapp refusing to run out of bounds
in a crucial game after gaining enough yards,
as all quarterback are taught to do to save
themselves from injury. Kapp, a Mexican-American,
said to reporters after the win: Only gringos
run out of bounds. I'm thinking of this moment
in sports while driving home having just
hired a Mexican worker to help me finish
my patio. He is a strong looking man
from Vera Cruz with a wife and four children.
He doesn't speak English very well.
He doesn't look at all like Kapp and the years
between Kapp's game and my unfinished patio
are many, so I'm trying to decide why Kapp
came to mind. Something to do with toughness
I decide. Since growing old, I've hired
Mexican workers and always been amazed
at how hard they work at the most unpleasant jobs,
and I think of the Conservatives complaining
about our borders not being strong enough,
and I'm willing to bet those same Republicans
in a crucial game, with angry linebackers
bearing down on them, would run
out of bounds to save their asses, which
I'd love to explain to the worker who tells me
his name is Jaime - Jimmy in Ingles,
but I don't speak his language well enough.
Saturday, February 10, 2018
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Hss Small Ball Maxed Out?
It is not a Tsunami change as the one that turned the game into a Small Ball game, but a wave of some significance that is breaking back on itself and renewing the importance of the Center, The Five, the Post, the Big to the NBA.
To begin with, here's the history: Professional basketball started out Small Ball in 1925 with the creation of the American Basketball League with a bunch of vertically challenged swift Jewish and Irish guys in constant motion, passing and cutting. By the end of the Forties, along came George Miken of the Minneapolis Lakers. Small Ball turned into Tall Ball. Back to the basket Bigs dominated the game: Chamberlain, Russell, Lanier, The Chief, Jabbar, Shaq, etc. This trend had a long life span, until the Heat put together King James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosch and introduced the NBA to Small Ball. The Warriors took small ball to its logical conclusion, with Draymond Green often playing the five and protecting the paint and, perhaps, every other spot on the court.
As the world turns, it is my belief that the league is finding its way back to the Bigs.
Really, you say. How is that? you ask.
Yes, it is, with the following caveat: The Bigs must be athletic, some will be able to shoot threes, all will provide scoring. In the Western Conference, for example, there is Cappela of Houston, Adams of OKC, Gobbert of the Utah Jazz, Cousins (he's a lot faster than he's given credit for) and Davis with the Pelicans, Karl-Anthony Towns of the TWolves, DeAndre Jordon (I wish he could shoot freethrows), Jokic of Denver, with reservations, and Willy Cauly Stein if he grows into his potential.
In the East, there is Joel Embid who certainly fits this model. In addition, it appears that there are a number of athletic Bigs (6'11", 7', 7.1") in this years college draft - young though they are - guys that can run, not lumber, shoot from distance, protect the rim, grab boards, and in general make things very difficult for penetrators. For example, if the Warriors had any of the above mentioned Western Conference Bigs, such as Adams, they would be NBA champs until Curry grew a gray beard?
NBA teams will not be able to win Championships much longer playing Small Ball. The future champions will have to have at least one significant athletic seven-footer.who can provide some scoring and lots of paint protection and muscle.Even in some cases shoot threes and play perimeter D in the case of a switch.
It's Black History Month and a poem written by African American Quincy Troupe
poem for My Fathers; for Quincy Troupe, Sr.
father, it was an honor to be there in the dugout
with you, the glory of great black men swinging their lives
as bats at tiny white balls
burning in at unbelievable speeds, riding up & in & out
a curve falling off the table, moving away screwing its stitched
magic into chitlin circuit air, its comma seams spinning
towards break down, dipping, like a hipster
bebopping a knee-dip stride in the charlie parker forties
wrist curing behind a "slick" black back
like a swan's neck, cupping
an invisible ball of dreams -
father, & you there regal as an african obeah man sculpted
out of wood, from a tree of no name no place origin
thick roots branching down into cherokee & someplace else lost
way back in africa, the sap running dry
crossing from north carolina, into goergia, in grandmother mary's womb
your mother in the violence of that red soil, ink blotter
gone now into blood graves of american news sponging
rococo truth dead & long gone as dinosaurs
the agent-oranged landscape of former names
absent of polysyllables, dry husk consonants there
nor, in their place, flat as polluted rivers
& that guitar string smile always snaking across virulent
american red neck faces scorching, like atomic
heat mushrooming over nagaski & hiroshima
those fever blistered shadows of it all
inked into sizzling concrete
but you there father, a yardbird solo riffin on
bat & ball glory, breaking down the fabricated myths
of white major league legends, of who was better
than who, beating them at their own crap
game with killer bats, as bud powell swung his silence into beauty
of a josh gibson home run, skittering across the piano keys
of bleachers, shattering all fabricated legends there in lights
struck-out white knights running the risky edge of amazement
awe, the miraculous truth sluicing through
steeped in the blues, confluencing like the point
at the cross between a fastball disguised as a curve
sliding away in a wicked sly grin, posed as an ass scratching
uncle tom, like satchel paige delivering his hesitation pitch,
then coming back with a hard high fast one
quicker than a professional hit-
man, the deadlines of it all, the strike
like that of the brown bomber's or sugar
ray robinson's lightning, cobra bite
& you there father, catching rhythms of chano pozo
balls, drumming into your catcher's mitt
fast as "cool papa" bell jumping into bed
before the lights went out
of the old negro baseball league, a promise
of harbinger, of shock waves, soon to come.
To begin with, here's the history: Professional basketball started out Small Ball in 1925 with the creation of the American Basketball League with a bunch of vertically challenged swift Jewish and Irish guys in constant motion, passing and cutting. By the end of the Forties, along came George Miken of the Minneapolis Lakers. Small Ball turned into Tall Ball. Back to the basket Bigs dominated the game: Chamberlain, Russell, Lanier, The Chief, Jabbar, Shaq, etc. This trend had a long life span, until the Heat put together King James, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosch and introduced the NBA to Small Ball. The Warriors took small ball to its logical conclusion, with Draymond Green often playing the five and protecting the paint and, perhaps, every other spot on the court.
As the world turns, it is my belief that the league is finding its way back to the Bigs.
Really, you say. How is that? you ask.
Yes, it is, with the following caveat: The Bigs must be athletic, some will be able to shoot threes, all will provide scoring. In the Western Conference, for example, there is Cappela of Houston, Adams of OKC, Gobbert of the Utah Jazz, Cousins (he's a lot faster than he's given credit for) and Davis with the Pelicans, Karl-Anthony Towns of the TWolves, DeAndre Jordon (I wish he could shoot freethrows), Jokic of Denver, with reservations, and Willy Cauly Stein if he grows into his potential.
In the East, there is Joel Embid who certainly fits this model. In addition, it appears that there are a number of athletic Bigs (6'11", 7', 7.1") in this years college draft - young though they are - guys that can run, not lumber, shoot from distance, protect the rim, grab boards, and in general make things very difficult for penetrators. For example, if the Warriors had any of the above mentioned Western Conference Bigs, such as Adams, they would be NBA champs until Curry grew a gray beard?
NBA teams will not be able to win Championships much longer playing Small Ball. The future champions will have to have at least one significant athletic seven-footer.who can provide some scoring and lots of paint protection and muscle.Even in some cases shoot threes and play perimeter D in the case of a switch.
It's Black History Month and a poem written by African American Quincy Troupe
poem for My Fathers; for Quincy Troupe, Sr.
father, it was an honor to be there in the dugout
with you, the glory of great black men swinging their lives
as bats at tiny white balls
burning in at unbelievable speeds, riding up & in & out
a curve falling off the table, moving away screwing its stitched
magic into chitlin circuit air, its comma seams spinning
towards break down, dipping, like a hipster
bebopping a knee-dip stride in the charlie parker forties
wrist curing behind a "slick" black back
like a swan's neck, cupping
an invisible ball of dreams -
father, & you there regal as an african obeah man sculpted
out of wood, from a tree of no name no place origin
thick roots branching down into cherokee & someplace else lost
way back in africa, the sap running dry
crossing from north carolina, into goergia, in grandmother mary's womb
your mother in the violence of that red soil, ink blotter
gone now into blood graves of american news sponging
rococo truth dead & long gone as dinosaurs
the agent-oranged landscape of former names
absent of polysyllables, dry husk consonants there
nor, in their place, flat as polluted rivers
& that guitar string smile always snaking across virulent
american red neck faces scorching, like atomic
heat mushrooming over nagaski & hiroshima
those fever blistered shadows of it all
inked into sizzling concrete
but you there father, a yardbird solo riffin on
bat & ball glory, breaking down the fabricated myths
of white major league legends, of who was better
than who, beating them at their own crap
game with killer bats, as bud powell swung his silence into beauty
of a josh gibson home run, skittering across the piano keys
of bleachers, shattering all fabricated legends there in lights
struck-out white knights running the risky edge of amazement
awe, the miraculous truth sluicing through
steeped in the blues, confluencing like the point
at the cross between a fastball disguised as a curve
sliding away in a wicked sly grin, posed as an ass scratching
uncle tom, like satchel paige delivering his hesitation pitch,
then coming back with a hard high fast one
quicker than a professional hit-
man, the deadlines of it all, the strike
like that of the brown bomber's or sugar
ray robinson's lightning, cobra bite
& you there father, catching rhythms of chano pozo
balls, drumming into your catcher's mitt
fast as "cool papa" bell jumping into bed
before the lights went out
of the old negro baseball league, a promise
of harbinger, of shock waves, soon to come.
Monday, February 5, 2018
Philly Cheese Steak, Pretzels, and Roasted Chestnuts on Chestnut Street
Howrah for Philly for winning the Super Bowl! Indeed it was Super. They have not always been. I had a friend, George Gutikunst, now departed, the garrulous owner of the Five Star restaurant Ondine's in Sausalito, CA that used to host Stupid Bowl parties. He would have not called this fabulous struggle stupid.
Having got my start in the NBA as the Philadelphia Warriors first round draft choice in 1961 and having become addicted to cheese steaks, hot pretzels with mustard, and roasted chestnuts, how could I not cheer for Philly? Besides, Patriots owner and Tom Brady voted for Trump. They deserved to lose. I sure hope Trump was watching the commercials that featured tons of people of color and racially mixed couples. The future is all about blending, Trump baby, suck it up!
The personal story, of course, is Foles, Philly quarterback, who almost quit the game, but came back and took over for injured starter, and superb leader, Carson Wentz. And take over he did, in spades, directing four quarters of seamless football. With his performance in the playoffs, and in the Super Bowl, Nick Foles earned the right to be the circus master of his own NFL team. The Eagles are ethically required to give this young man the right to negotiate with other clubs, many in dire need of quarterback leadership. Go Nick, we old Philly Warriors are on your side. I can imagine my dear Philly Warriors teammates and Philly natives, Wilt Chamberlain, Tom Gola, Paul Arizon and Guy Rodgers cheering wildly from their heavenly homes as you guided your Eagles down field for that last touchdown.
Was Robert DeNiro in the stands? He should have been. Oops, I forgot DeNiro is banned from Eagles games. DeNiro's son, Bradley Cooper, was in attendance, sitting with the Eagles team owner.
As soon as I finish this blog, I'm heading to my nearest Cheese Steak joint. It won't be a Philly sandwich, but I think flying to the City of Brotherly Love for lunch might be taking the victory too seriously.
The Super Bowl deserves a football poem. Here's one of the funniest poem about the pigskin sport that I've ever read. If it doesn't look like a poem for those who don't read much poetry, no worries, it's called a prose-poem.
Football by Louis Jenkins
I take the snap from center, fake to the right, fade back. . .
I've got protection. I've got a receiver open down field. . .
What the hell is this? This isn't a football, it's a shoe, a man's
brown leather oxford. A cousin to a football maybe, the same
skin, but not the same, a think made for the earth, not the air.
I realize that this sis a world where anything is possible and I
understand, also, that one often has to make do with what one
has. I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn
syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they
weren't very good. Well, anyway, this is different. (My man
downfield is waving his arms.) One has certain responsibili-
ties, one had to make choices. This isn't right and I'm not go-
ing to throw it.
Having got my start in the NBA as the Philadelphia Warriors first round draft choice in 1961 and having become addicted to cheese steaks, hot pretzels with mustard, and roasted chestnuts, how could I not cheer for Philly? Besides, Patriots owner and Tom Brady voted for Trump. They deserved to lose. I sure hope Trump was watching the commercials that featured tons of people of color and racially mixed couples. The future is all about blending, Trump baby, suck it up!
The personal story, of course, is Foles, Philly quarterback, who almost quit the game, but came back and took over for injured starter, and superb leader, Carson Wentz. And take over he did, in spades, directing four quarters of seamless football. With his performance in the playoffs, and in the Super Bowl, Nick Foles earned the right to be the circus master of his own NFL team. The Eagles are ethically required to give this young man the right to negotiate with other clubs, many in dire need of quarterback leadership. Go Nick, we old Philly Warriors are on your side. I can imagine my dear Philly Warriors teammates and Philly natives, Wilt Chamberlain, Tom Gola, Paul Arizon and Guy Rodgers cheering wildly from their heavenly homes as you guided your Eagles down field for that last touchdown.
Was Robert DeNiro in the stands? He should have been. Oops, I forgot DeNiro is banned from Eagles games. DeNiro's son, Bradley Cooper, was in attendance, sitting with the Eagles team owner.
As soon as I finish this blog, I'm heading to my nearest Cheese Steak joint. It won't be a Philly sandwich, but I think flying to the City of Brotherly Love for lunch might be taking the victory too seriously.
The Super Bowl deserves a football poem. Here's one of the funniest poem about the pigskin sport that I've ever read. If it doesn't look like a poem for those who don't read much poetry, no worries, it's called a prose-poem.
Football by Louis Jenkins
I take the snap from center, fake to the right, fade back. . .
I've got protection. I've got a receiver open down field. . .
What the hell is this? This isn't a football, it's a shoe, a man's
brown leather oxford. A cousin to a football maybe, the same
skin, but not the same, a think made for the earth, not the air.
I realize that this sis a world where anything is possible and I
understand, also, that one often has to make do with what one
has. I have eaten pancakes, for instance, with that clear corn
syrup on them because there was no maple syrup and they
weren't very good. Well, anyway, this is different. (My man
downfield is waving his arms.) One has certain responsibili-
ties, one had to make choices. This isn't right and I'm not go-
ing to throw it.
Tuesday, January 30, 2018
One Month Into 2018
It's tough to stay current about sports when you're coughing every two seconds, this damnable respiratory flu getting in the way of my sports. Fie! The flu ended a week ago, and like Jack Nicholson's homicidal character Jack Torrence said in The Shining, "I'm baaaaaaak!"
Current news: Pelican's DeMarcus Cousin's rupturing his Achilles' tendon makes me want to rail against the injustice of Irony, one of the principals, to my way of thinking, that governs the actions of mankind. While I always recognized Cousin's talent (He is/was a force of nature), when he was a Sacramento King, I thought he was childish, melodramatic and a bad teammate. His presence on the on the Kings was disruptive and depressing. But, in New Orleans, it seemed as if the young man was getting his act together: less conflicts with refs, more unselfish play, better attitude. Just when things were changing for the better, irony asserted its presence. Sometimes irony stinks. I wish Boogie a quick and complete recovery.
The increasing contentiousness of players towards referees in the NBA has prompted Commissioner Silver to set up a meeting during All Star break for both sides to air their grievances and suggest solutions. Five to one, it won't work. The problem rests with the NBA office. There needs to be more intense training of officials, and I'm talking INTENSE, with plenty of self criticism as Mao was won't to say from time to time. The refs need to watch tons of game film and to study the moves of players, so on the court they understand what a player is up to.
They do, they do, they really do watch film, says the league office.
Balderdash! Referees, I reasonably certain refs do not work as hard honing their refereeing skills as the players do honing their basketball skills. Here's one example of referee error that should have been fixed eons ago, but has persisted in the league, since, horrors, this old dude was playing: Lack of Consistency of Calls. Ask any player who plays or every played in the NBA if this is not true. I capitalize to show how important fixing this single problem would be toward making things better between players and refs. If all players knew how all refs were going to call specific infractions (granted you have to give refs some wiggle room), the players would be less likely to complain. For example, how the hell do refs (the league) interpret a block or a legal screen? I sure can't figure it out. In the world of NBA's pick and roll offense, this needs to be clarified if nothing else is. As far as the players go, they have GOT TO STOP whining about every single frigging call. From the Refs' point of view, its got to be like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, after a while the complaints no longer are believable. So lighten up player, vent only when it's truly called for. And what's with all the hand waving and disgusted smirks. Grow up! Okay, so I used to smirk a little when I played.
Is there a better all around power forward in the NBA than Draymond Green? Not a chance. So glad to see all four of our starters selected as All-Stars.
Speaking of All Star Games, I'm repeating a previous blog where I explained how the NBA could liven up a game that, lacking significant defense, is boring beyond belief. Here's what should happen in my humble opinion, or not so humble one: Create a four point line. Create a five point box four feet by four feet in each of the mid-court corners.
Blake Griffen trade could make the Pistons a serious Eastern Conference Finals contender this season. The Pistons have enough left after Tobias Harris and a player I like very much, Avery Bradly depart. Clippers going more to the perimeter game, that's for sure.
You have to agree with Magic Johnson that any coach, professor, administrator at Michigan State University who had the slightest knowledge of Doctor Nassar's abuse or of any other sexual abuse by any other athletic team members and associates and didn't report it need to be fired, yesterday. Hushed up since 2010, can you believe it? The state of Michigan better gird its loins for the law suits that are going to be filed against it.
Here's a poem about Magic.
Magic by Tom Meschery
It's a joy watching film of Magic dribbling
the ball or zipping a pass. I'm reminded
of the playgrounds where there was nothing
riding on our games except bragging rights,
the wind in our faces, the wind at our backs ,
sun on asphalt, sweat in our eyes,
a cold beer waiting for us. No regrets
win or loose. Before money and contracts.
I turn to my wife and say look at that smile.
Yes, she says, like a candelabra.
Current news: Pelican's DeMarcus Cousin's rupturing his Achilles' tendon makes me want to rail against the injustice of Irony, one of the principals, to my way of thinking, that governs the actions of mankind. While I always recognized Cousin's talent (He is/was a force of nature), when he was a Sacramento King, I thought he was childish, melodramatic and a bad teammate. His presence on the on the Kings was disruptive and depressing. But, in New Orleans, it seemed as if the young man was getting his act together: less conflicts with refs, more unselfish play, better attitude. Just when things were changing for the better, irony asserted its presence. Sometimes irony stinks. I wish Boogie a quick and complete recovery.
The increasing contentiousness of players towards referees in the NBA has prompted Commissioner Silver to set up a meeting during All Star break for both sides to air their grievances and suggest solutions. Five to one, it won't work. The problem rests with the NBA office. There needs to be more intense training of officials, and I'm talking INTENSE, with plenty of self criticism as Mao was won't to say from time to time. The refs need to watch tons of game film and to study the moves of players, so on the court they understand what a player is up to.
They do, they do, they really do watch film, says the league office.
Balderdash! Referees, I reasonably certain refs do not work as hard honing their refereeing skills as the players do honing their basketball skills. Here's one example of referee error that should have been fixed eons ago, but has persisted in the league, since, horrors, this old dude was playing: Lack of Consistency of Calls. Ask any player who plays or every played in the NBA if this is not true. I capitalize to show how important fixing this single problem would be toward making things better between players and refs. If all players knew how all refs were going to call specific infractions (granted you have to give refs some wiggle room), the players would be less likely to complain. For example, how the hell do refs (the league) interpret a block or a legal screen? I sure can't figure it out. In the world of NBA's pick and roll offense, this needs to be clarified if nothing else is. As far as the players go, they have GOT TO STOP whining about every single frigging call. From the Refs' point of view, its got to be like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, after a while the complaints no longer are believable. So lighten up player, vent only when it's truly called for. And what's with all the hand waving and disgusted smirks. Grow up! Okay, so I used to smirk a little when I played.
Is there a better all around power forward in the NBA than Draymond Green? Not a chance. So glad to see all four of our starters selected as All-Stars.
Speaking of All Star Games, I'm repeating a previous blog where I explained how the NBA could liven up a game that, lacking significant defense, is boring beyond belief. Here's what should happen in my humble opinion, or not so humble one: Create a four point line. Create a five point box four feet by four feet in each of the mid-court corners.
Blake Griffen trade could make the Pistons a serious Eastern Conference Finals contender this season. The Pistons have enough left after Tobias Harris and a player I like very much, Avery Bradly depart. Clippers going more to the perimeter game, that's for sure.
You have to agree with Magic Johnson that any coach, professor, administrator at Michigan State University who had the slightest knowledge of Doctor Nassar's abuse or of any other sexual abuse by any other athletic team members and associates and didn't report it need to be fired, yesterday. Hushed up since 2010, can you believe it? The state of Michigan better gird its loins for the law suits that are going to be filed against it.
Here's a poem about Magic.
Magic by Tom Meschery
It's a joy watching film of Magic dribbling
the ball or zipping a pass. I'm reminded
of the playgrounds where there was nothing
riding on our games except bragging rights,
the wind in our faces, the wind at our backs ,
sun on asphalt, sweat in our eyes,
a cold beer waiting for us. No regrets
win or loose. Before money and contracts.
I turn to my wife and say look at that smile.
Yes, she says, like a candelabra.
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
How About Some Christmas Cheer for NFL and NBA Dance Teams?
Here we are in the Holiday Season, Christmas presents unwrapped, all of us looking forward to New Year's Eve and 2018. So how come there's nothing in the stockings of pro dance teams dancers, except tired legs for all the hard work they put in?
Hey pro owners, I'm talking NFL towel boys get get $50 grand contracts, NBA and NFL mascots get $25 to $50 grand per year, and what do the dance team ladies get? CHUMP CHANGE!
SHAME!
Here are few figures to ponder: NFL Cowboys pay their cheerleaders $150 dollars per home game and no pay for rehearsals. NBA Lakers pay their dance team $130.dollars per home game,which amounts to $5,460 thou per season, not counting playoffs and an hourly rate ($100 per hr) for other appearances. Really proud of those numbers, are you? The Indiana Pacers pay their dance team a shameful $60 bucks per home games.
As it stands now, based on what I can find out on the Internet, you're all Grinches. Straighten up and fly right. These women work their legs off. Their routines are high energy and require great physical coordination and exertion. And, although I've been critical at times about their routines, they are indeed an important part of your showtime.
If I'm wrong, owners and administrators, and you're more generous, and I hope you are, please clue me in. I'll be happy to print a retraction.
It's the holiday and flatlanders are in the mountains skiing or snowboarding. Here's a small poem I wrote about why I don't ski
Why I Don't Ski by Tom Meschery
There's way too much to do before the fun:
consider the clothes you've to to zipper into
and gloves like furry animals that weigh a ton
boots that weigh more than most first-born do,
and goggles that turn the snow to black,
and if you're smart, there's a helmet to don
in case you fall, which is inevitable
as there are snowboarders on the run
who'll cut in front of you and cheer
and less you regret, don't forget the tree
that appears out of nowhere just
as you lose control, that has your name
written on its bark like a grave stone.
Hey pro owners, I'm talking NFL towel boys get get $50 grand contracts, NBA and NFL mascots get $25 to $50 grand per year, and what do the dance team ladies get? CHUMP CHANGE!
SHAME!
Here are few figures to ponder: NFL Cowboys pay their cheerleaders $150 dollars per home game and no pay for rehearsals. NBA Lakers pay their dance team $130.dollars per home game,which amounts to $5,460 thou per season, not counting playoffs and an hourly rate ($100 per hr) for other appearances. Really proud of those numbers, are you? The Indiana Pacers pay their dance team a shameful $60 bucks per home games.
As it stands now, based on what I can find out on the Internet, you're all Grinches. Straighten up and fly right. These women work their legs off. Their routines are high energy and require great physical coordination and exertion. And, although I've been critical at times about their routines, they are indeed an important part of your showtime.
If I'm wrong, owners and administrators, and you're more generous, and I hope you are, please clue me in. I'll be happy to print a retraction.
It's the holiday and flatlanders are in the mountains skiing or snowboarding. Here's a small poem I wrote about why I don't ski
Why I Don't Ski by Tom Meschery
There's way too much to do before the fun:
consider the clothes you've to to zipper into
and gloves like furry animals that weigh a ton
boots that weigh more than most first-born do,
and goggles that turn the snow to black,
and if you're smart, there's a helmet to don
in case you fall, which is inevitable
as there are snowboarders on the run
who'll cut in front of you and cheer
and less you regret, don't forget the tree
that appears out of nowhere just
as you lose control, that has your name
written on its bark like a grave stone.
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