Roll Call

Alright rockers, we know it's been a while since we rapped at ya, but times have been lean in the taking-potshots-at-the-toy-department-department lately. There has been a distinct lack of cox to bloc, of mittenstringing to zing. But our prayers have been answered, so let's catch up with the old gang:

Simba used The Immortal Gazza Roberts's 2-goal performance against Ottawa to rewrite a column from around 2002:

While Roberts was able to elevate his game and elevate others around him at the same time while with the Leafs, Sundin has managed to elevate only his own game, having little tangible impact on the play of his teammates.
The fire you witness now, even in a 41-year-old Roberts, is the kind of fire Leafs teams have been missing since his negotiation was mangled by the previous Toronto general manager. The kind of leadership that never is easily replaced.

I love Gary Roberts, but the assertion that what the Leafs really needed this year was a 41-year-old winger who managed to suit up for all of 19 games is ridiculous even by his low standards. I look forward to next week's column on another Leaf legend:

Dave Keon took a big crap this morning. At 68, the craps don't come as often or as easy as they once did. But it was a winner's crap - a captain's crap - nonetheless. Packed with Metamucil and heart. Unlike Mats Sundin, who fills the bowl everyday with nothing but his own selfishness, and maybe some half-digested herring, this crap could inspire a team to greatness. It's the kind of crap the Leafs have forgotten these last forty-odd Cupless years. But breathe deep, and you can still smell it now.

Also revealed in this brainsqueeze - Stephen A Smith may love the CHEEZ DOODLES, but Simmons is all about the Girl Guide cookies. Edgy!

Darren Dreger bade farewell to his number one source this week, Dave Nonis. Shockingly, Dreger thinks firing Cousin Dave was a bad move. The most offensive thing about this piece of journalism was Dreger's use of the term "manager" to refer to GMs, as in "shrewd managers don't give McCabe that contract." Oooh, it's so insidery! When the hell did this start? Was it Bob McKenzie? It makes the high-profile, exciting job we've all dreamed of - making blockbuster deals, building a contender, going apeshit on Cox, buying out Andrew Raycroft- sound like making sure the night shift at Kinko's has enough toner and letting Zack F know he's canned if he comes in baked again. Jesus.

Richard Griffin wrote a good column about baseball, proving he's a solid writer as long as he steers clear of any analysis of what's actually happening on the field. He's got a million war stories, however, and today I quite enjoyed this little tidbit:

I understood when I travelled to Montreal on the 50th anniversary of Robinson's debut with the Royals. At an Expos press conference honouring the pioneer, his widow, Rachel, was refused a glass of water because speeches were starting, while owner Claude Brochu's wife, standing next to her, was offered a glass of wine.

Ahh, the same bang-up Expos staff I remember from my time in Montreal. Once I called the Expos ticket office to inquire about the start time of that night's game, and the lady replied "What game?" At least she didn't say "What time can you make it?"

His cantankerous counterpart at the Globe, Jeff Blair,  ran hot and cold this week. First we had this kind of quality inside dirt that he relishes providing:

as good as Bedard's stuff is, he has yet to pitch 200 innings in a season. There are scouts who wonder about his adherence to his conditioning program - lots of them - and, frankly, whether the guy gets the rest he needs during the regular season.

And then this, linked only it seems by their shared nationality and the desire to pad out some space:

And while we're at it, our guy Russell Martin of the Los Angeles Dodgers has been plagued by the same malaise that's hit the rest of his teammates: a .146 average?

Malaise? Yes, Joe Torre is Jimmy Carter, Andruw Jones's contract is stagflation in action.... or you know, it could be just forty-odd at-bats. Easy, hoss. Russell Martin's middle name is Nathan Coltrane Jeanson. Coltrane! You don't just count a guy like that out.

Cox and Shoalts both seemed fairly excited this week about Brian Burke bringing his act to town. Aside from why they would want someone who is going to lay into them on the daily at the helm (they cover the Leafs, they're clearly masochists), is Burke really that good? He strikes me as a guy who has done well when he has inherited a fair bit of talent, but maybe not much of a drafter or a builder. Thoughts?

Finally, Roy MacGregor has taken his brand of warmed over Gzowski, spiced it with some Sens homerism, and dumped in on the Globe's sports section recently. The highlight was his story on Game Three, which taught us all a valuable lesson about writing the game story before the game actually, you know, happens. Roy of the Ramblers was so invested in bigging up Alfredsson's comeback as bigger than Willis Reed at the Garden, Randy Savage over Ric Flair, and the Soviet Union at Stalingrad combined, he couldn't let a couple things like Alfie's undeniably courageous but completely ineffectual performance, or the fact that the Sens got played out of the building yet again get in the way. Of course,  he may not have really been paying attention to the game at all:

For two periods they held on, tied 1-1 after 40 minutes, but more bad penalties in the third and eventually the Penguins were able to trump any psychological advantage with a skill advantage.

Yeah, dumb penalties were sure the cause of Pittsburgh's first two goals in three minutes. You know, the even strength ones.  Hopefully Roy trudging back to page to pen more eyeglazers  on wheat farmers representing our indomitable Canadian spirit or six months of pieces about his cottage (and to be fair, the man does write a mean feature article, but good god those columns) will be one of many side benefits of the Sens latest springtime bedshittery. Has any team packed that much embarassment into four games lately?

So, there we are, all caught up with everyone - except Feschuk. Sorry! Write a blog post about what a useless clod I am. It always makes me feel better.