An Unserious Man In Full

Posted by Sean Doyle, December 2, 2013.

Image edited by Sean Doyle

When exactly did Jim Dolan officially jump the shark?  Was he ever really on the other side of it?

There is a breed of owner, senile Grandpa Al types with gin-flecked breath and yellowy eyes, ever ready with a unfashionable quip about race or gender or some such unmentionable thing, who despite it all still retain an oddball's charm.  Well, that's not Jim Dolan.  He's not even that guy. I'm racking my skull attempting to divine one endearing thing he's ever done, in 14 years just one moment of levity.  There is none.  The man simply fails all tests of sympathy  He is mercurial without being meaningful, mean-spirited without being impactful.  Therefore, in the happy spirit of the holidays, let's deconstruct the Knicks' owner by running him through the friendly confines of the Dummy Bros. scorecard.  Let the evisceration begin!

# DUMMY BROS. SCORECARD #

Range (+10 to -10) 

- Firing GM Glen Grunwald, Replacing him with Steve Mills
By all accounts Steve Mills is a competent and accomplished man.  However, Mr. Mills one major contribution to the New York Knicks franchise was the hiring of Isiah Thomas.  Oops. This was an unforgivable decision and one that us fans are still frankly paying for 10 years later.  In contrast, Glen Grunwald helped to build the 2012-13 Knicks, a likable 54-win squad that were (in my opinion) slight overachievers.  (Honestly, there was simply no way the Knicks were beating the younger, stronger, longer Pacers in a best-of-seven.  54 wins and a competitive second round series was best case for New York.)  Grunwald wasn't perfect, but he did nothing to cause such an abrupt and rude dismissal.

DUMMY SCORE: - 8 (Dolan doesn't like anyone smarter than him. Goodbye, Grunwald and Walsh. Hello Isiah!)

- Benching The Knicks City Dancers
Since the advent and evolution of advanced metrics in pro sports one data point in particular has proven axiomatic.  All the finest minds from Sloan and MIT to the sports blogosphere are in uniform agreement on this point.  What is this unassailable metric you ask?  It's the DWTR (or dancing-to-win rate-correlation %).  Simply put, the DWTR measures (using impossibly complex algorithms) the inverse correlation between the number and length of the home team's cheerleading/ dancing routines and the winning percentage of said home team.  While many pundits saw Dolan's near extermination of the popular Knicks City Dancers as a petty move, I saw a brainy, modern owner embrace the latest in advanced criteria to improve his team's chance at winning.

Disagree?  Ok, ok, I know, (I kid) it was a petty and pointless move made by an imbecile asshole.  I'm sure Dolan doesn't even know how to spell metric.  Moving on.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (There are no words...)

- Hiring A Stooge To Follow Head Coach Mike Woodson Everywhere He Goes
WTFF?  Look Jimbo, if you don't trust the guy, then fire him.  If you do trust him then by all means stop fracking spying on him 24/7!!!  Why does everything Dolan does remind me of the final days of the Nixon White House?  He's like pro sports' very own Kim Jong-un.  I honestly thought this story was a swerve when I first heard it.  Really I did.  Mainly because isn't this type of thing, well, illegal?

DUMMY SCORE: - 9  (Just in case Woody does have a few skeletons in his walk-in closet)

Image edited by Sean Doyle

- Mr. Smith Goes To Broadway
Can we talk about Chris Smith?  Is it safe?  Look, I truly admire JR Smith's blood loyalty.  Blood is blood, and family is family, and you can't fault a man for trying to help his brother's dream come true.  Having said that, roster spots in the NBA are precious few (particularly for playoff caliber clubs).  This rouse is yet another illustration of Dolan's "Boss Tweed" sensibility.  There were at least a dozen better candidates for this final roster spot that I can think of off the top of my head and I'm half-drunk.

DUMMY SCORE: - 8 (The Knicks are 3-13 for chrissakes!  We could use all the help we can get.)

- Crushing Linsanity
Allow me to throw a scenario at you...

Lets say you are a team that has had only one winning season in the last ten years.  A team wherein finishing 12th in the Eastern Conference is actually considered a better than average season.  Then, let's say (for sh*ts and gigs) this team was run by a clueless GM (later removed), who when he wasn't sexually harassing a female co-worker, and dishing out racist dismissals of the team's fan base, he was assembling the most expensive, least likable roster in the history of the Association.  Then, after spending said decade roving in the bleak winless wilderness of Jerome James and Renaldo Balkman and Stephon Marbury and the like, this team happens upon an undrafted third string point guard from Harvard and boom!  (The biggest pop culture phenomenon in recent NBA history is born!)  They called it Linsanity, and it was like a a gift from the basketball gods.  Finally, after a decade of darkness there was a bright beautiful light at the end of the tunnel.  Can you guess what happened next? Can you?  Well, Boss Dolan didn't like Jeremy Lin's "surly" attitude or some such thing and next thing you know Lin is in Rocket red and we've signed a bunch of half-done fifty-year olds with the money. Dolan made it all about himself, and not what was best for the team. And did I mention that we are 3-13 so far this year?.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. Still shaking my head.)

Image provided by the NYPD's "Special Victim's Unit."

- Expecting The 2013-2014 Knicks To Win the NBA Championship
"He stood straight up and looked the world squarely in the fields and hills.  To add weight to his words he stuck the rabbit bone in his hair.  He spread his arms out wide. "I will go mad!" he announced."
                                      - Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Omnibus

Madness has a certain vital charm to it.  Honestly, I hesitate to use any phrase that might bestow, however indirectly, a layer of romanticized depth to a man (Dolan) I believe is lacking in the requisite insight to even attain the minimum standard for such an insult.  Having said that, Dolan is just batshit nutty if he thinks the '13-'14 Knicks have a shot at an NBA Championship this season.   The Knicks have no power forward, a star player (Melo) who is unwilling to play defense, an aging (at times awkward) roster, and a salary cap situation that makes adding another good player very difficult, if not downright impossible. They may be good enough for a 6 or 7 seed, and a competitive first round series, but that is it.  Dolan's insanity notwithstanding.

DUMMY SCORE: - 7 (Did I mention that The Knicks are currently 3-13?  I did?  Ok.)

- Blaming Donnie Walsh's Wheelchair For  The Knicks Failure To Sign LeBron
There are many reasons LeBron James did not sign with the Knicks in the summer of 2010.  Just jotting a few off the top of my head here: mediocre roster, demanding (and knowledgeable) fan base, aggressive 24/7 media presence, lack of future draft picks due to terrible trades (Isiah), unsuccessful and erratic ownership group, salary cap concerns, the fact that the Knicks had one winning season in the previous ten and had become a universal punchline in pro sports, etcetera etcetera. Not a single one had to do with Donnie Walsh being in a wheelchair during the negotiations.

But Jim Dolan, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to blame Walsh (one of the NBA's most respected minds) and the aesthetics of the older man's temporary impairment due to hip surgery, for the Knicks failure to land King James.  As if LeBron wasn't going to sign with the team that gave him the very best opportunity to win multiple championships and cement his legacy as an all-time great, but with the team that gave the flashiest pitch.  I'm certain Dolan is convinced to this day that if he brought in Usher riding sideways on a Bengal tiger singing "New York, New York," while Isiah flew around him on a hoverboard lobbing benjis his way, that LBJ would be wearing the blue and orange right now.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (A truly mean-spirited thing to do, Jimbo)

- Firing Marv Albert, Standing By Isiah Thomas
Marv Albert is arguably the best play-by-play man in NBA history. (And a hometown guy to boot) Isiah Thomas is arguably the worst GM in modern NBA history.  Guess which one Jim Dolan exiled and which one he supported in perpetuity like a beloved son?  Exactly.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (SMFH...)

- No Playoff Wins for Ten Years (2001-2011)
In the previous ten year period (1991-2001) the Knicks had 67 playoff victories!  Is it any coincidence then that Dolan started asserting himself as owner in 2001? Only Charlotte, an expansion team with serious ownership issues of it's own, matched New York for futility in that dark decade.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (See above chart...)

- Opening For The Eagles
I would never begrudge a man for pursuing his passions.  I love music and I love playing music and if I had Dolan's bankroll (from his Daddy of course) I'd probably assemble a quality roster of top flight musicians to play with myself.  In addition, I think it's really cool that his son plays in the band as well. Really I do.  Ok, now that I've gotten all jazz out of the way, let me say this...If Dolan wasn't a billionaire he would be lucky to be selling day-old pretzels and bootleg t-shirts out of the back of his truck in the parking lot during an Eagles' concert, to say nothing of opening for the Hall of Fame act!  The Eagles are one of America's greatest living bands and the notion that Jim Dolan would be anywhere near that stage sans his family's immense fortune and connections is a world class farce.

DUMMY SCORE: - 10 (The Eagles? Really?)

Final Grade: - 92 (Verdict: All-Time FAIL)

Let me conclude by saying this, I don't believe Jim Dolan to be purposely fiendish.  Rather, I think of him more as incomprehensibly foolish.  He seems to be a man with no innate ability to gauge his own mistakes.  As a Knicks' fan I'm still rooting for him to figure it all out.  Because if he succeeds, we all succeed.   Let's just say however that I'm not holding my breath.

World Without End, Amen.

Posted by Sean Doyle, October 5, 2013

Image by Sean & Colin Doyle

THE PRICE

It's an odd thing being a Yankee fan.  On one hand (fat with pride) you have the Iron Horse, the Babe, the Mick, 27 rings, 56, 61*, Donnie Baseball, Mr. October, Mr. November, Mo, Munson, and Yogi.  On the other hand you have a fistful of confutations, ever ready for that new acquaintance who looks terminally ill at the moment you inform him/her of where your baseball loyalty lies. "The Yankees?" They say with a sneer which proudly displays their contempt. "Really? Ugh!! Why?" No sports team forces it's fans to expound upon their philosophy of fandom more so than the New York Yankees.  No other organization is used so readily to establish one's character.

Graphic by Sean & Colin Doyle

What does being a Yankee fan say about you? Are you a mean-spirited, front running, self important putz with a fragile ego who blindly salutes the dark flag of a corporate monolith? Or are you an earnest, reflective follower of the great national pass time and it's most honored ball club? Or perhaps both, a conflation of pride and greed, tradition and vulgarity?(1)*  I will say this, there is something quite contrived about the typical "Yankee-Hater" with all their posing and posturing and half-hearted protests about payroll inequality and "Goliath" name calling.  These are the same fans in Boston, Chicago, Philly, Detroit, Atlanta, and LA who rave like lip-quivering tweens at Bieber convention every time their team scoops up a prized free agent, but can't quite square the circle when the Bomber's do the same.  It's fine of course, and painted in the landscape when you are on top, it's just the outrage always came in a tad too manufactured for my taste. 

To their credit, the Yanks have often made it laughably easy for their detractors (see Here and Here), serving up a detestable moments and questionable decisions with the casual frequency of franks at a ballgame.  After all, we as humans are hardwired to root for the underdog and the Yankees are most certainly not (and never, ever will be) the underdog. They play in the number one city ever, have the number one player (Ruth) ever, have the most championships of any major American franchise ever.  It seems there is no end to the hyperbolic adverbs one can attribute to the pinstripes. They are ballgame uber alles, an Empire without end.

So great is their cultural saturation that the word "Yankees" is now synonymous with both baseball and success.  Merely utter the word Yankees aloud in a room full of strangers and you're likely to pop the temperature gauge a few nods.  Love them or despise them, the Bombers do inspire a genuine passion in all.  Ask yourself, How many "Bleacher Creatures"would gladly step in front of a bullet for Derek Jeter? Now ask, how many Royals', Ray's or Buc's fans would so the same for their lead dog?  And gladly? Not a chance.

II. MEET THE NEW BOSS, NOT THE SAME AS THE OLD BOSS...

                      

When George Steinbrenner purchased the Yankees in January 1973, the bombers hadn't been to the playoffs in eight seasons, hadn't finished higher than 5th in five of those eight.  Over the subsequent nine seasons they had five 1st place finishes, won four Pennants, and captured two World Championships.  As the great Lou Mannheim aptly observed, "You can't get a little bit pregnant, son."  This is sage advice, particularly as it involves running a baseball team in the Bronx. (Basically, Hal, you are either in or you are out.)   Thus, you can't run the Yankee's like something else, because they aren't something else, they are the YANKEES.  It's win now, win forever, or die trying.  The Boss understood this axiom as well as he understood the very city itself.  It was a rare symbiosis he achieved, and sustained, between himself and the fan base. His sons seem oblivious to this great bargain. 

The Yankees finished 85-77, in 4th place, 12 games behind the division leading Boston Red Sox. That last sentence was difficult to write.  See, I don't necessarily mind missing the playoffs, or even going through a mild rebuilding process, as long as there is some kind of coherent strategy inspiring the downswing.  Near as I can see, the only motivation for the mediocre product on the field is Hal Steinbrenner's peculiar luxury tax reduction fetish. (2)*  When historians look back 100 years from now, they'll see that one man placed a mild balance sheet improvement ahead of glory.  The irony is that Hal will be rich whether or not the Yankees pay the luxury tax for the next ten straight years, or never pay it again. 

So here's the rub Hal, you will never be known for anything but owning the Yankees (and that's not a knock, its just the odds of him being involved with something of greater import than NYY is highly statistically slim) therefore you will be judged solely for what happens during the small period of time you are blessed to run this historic franchise.  For better or worse, these are the metrics that posterity will use to judge, and all the important numbers are running right away from you.

                       

Attendance has declined virtually every year since the new ballpark opened in 2009.  That's somewhat to be expected, as many other ball clubs have experienced a similar drop once the "new toy" honeymoon period winds down.  Sure the shine can't last forever kid, but only five years later and we're diving faster than the Mets in September (Or any other month, for that matter).

Of greater concern are the television ratings.  It's one thing to decide to save a couple hundred bucks and forgo a long car ride by staying home, it's entirely different when you are simply ignoring the product when it's sitting free in your living room.  Currently, the Yankees are averaging half (HALF!) the television ratings they were getting in 2009, down from nearly 5 to 2.52, and dropping.  There is no greater measure of fan apathy than that metric.  

 Is it simply wins and losses?  Perhaps, but I'd say it goes deeper than that.  This harks back to the aforementioned symbiosis between the owner and his/her fan base.  It's a relationship like any other.  Let's face it, for the longest time us Yankee fans had a sugar daddy who spoiled us rotten and it occasionally made it feel "as when the world was new."  Now, the Yankees don't feel special anymore.  We have a bloated payroll larded with refugees from the netherworld of bad contracts (Vernon Wells, Alf Soriano, etc), a lackluster farm system, and worst of all, a disinterested dance partner.  Listen Hal, you have to be honest with yourself... did you really give it your best short or did you half-heartedly assemble a roster of middling mid-carders? See that's my whole issue with Prince Hal's hapless reign, his heart just doesn't seem that into it.  Nobody wants to be on the bad side of an asymmetric relationship.  No matter how weird, or (at times) abusive George was, we always knew he loved us and would take care of us. We forgave his sins because he always minded the big picture.  For Boss George it was win the last game of the season, or call it failure.

III. COLD SOUP

Is this to be the new Bronx paradigm? 80-90 wins a season? An occasional wild-card berth every 3 years? Sixty to seventy percent attended home games?  2.0 (and below) TV ratings?  A couple of aging (smirking) veterans helping us scrape along? A dispassionate lukewarm borderline absentee owner?  A championship (maybe) every fifteen to twenty years? In other fucking words, every other team in baseball!  WTFF??   We committed to a certain way of doing things here in NY the day Harry Frazee sold us Babe Ruth for a sack of magic beans (or whatever).  Now ninety-some odd years later we are turning into the Milwaukee Brewers East??  Hal, If you want to manage a balance sheet and eek out a small profit then why don't you go run a couple of West Tampa Golf Courses, because in the Bronx we are in the Empire Business.  That's our tradition. You know what? Screw Prince Hal, this is New York!  Bring on Halsenberg!

Because nothing stops this train, nothing.      


DUMMY NOTES:
*(1) I certainly proved to be both with this article...

*(2) I'm well aware of the potential savings to be had by (the Yanks) dropping below the $189 million payroll threshold in 2014.  The Bombers could in such a scenario reduce their forward luxury tax rate from 50% to 17.5%.  This hypothetical reduction would have enormous prospective economic benefit for the organization.  My contention lies with the idea that several seasons should fall casualty to this ambition.  If we can pull it off - great, if not - oh well, but I don't want to lose two or three years of competitive baseball for it.

Brooklyn Nets: Alternative History, Vol. II

Posted by Sean Doyle, July 25, 2013

Graphic by Sean & Colin Doyle


December 7, 2010
A date which will live in infamy...

The Nets fall to The Hawks in Atlanta, 116-101, dropping their record to 9-13. It is their fourth straight loss and third consecutive drubbing by double-digits. Shortly following the game, reporters huddled around the locker of starting point guard John Wall.  Wall, the number one pick in the previous June's NBA Draft, appeared despondent, never once lifting his eyes to meet this surly disquisition. The young point guard, his gaze fixed on the rubber-pocked locker room floor, offered only fleeting tones.  It was the same question after all, (EVERY DAMN TIME!!) just dressed in different accents, sometimes smiling, but mostly just leering. It went something like this..."How does it feel to lose your spot in the starting lineup, kid?"

How would you feel, old-blood?

Back beyond the vendor's gate, near the visitor's press room, Coach Cal paced about. After all, he was earning a near record $134,146 dollars per game on his massive five year $55 million contract. Nine wins out of twenty-two would hardly earn him a banner in Bed-Stuy, much less appease the towering Russian himself.  Coach dug five fingers through his burnished mane.  This rare act of slovenliness invited chaos into the highly ordered singularity of pomaded hair, styled by the Coach, and known to all great men as "The Gordon" look. "Fug it all, I don't care," he thought aloud.  Muttering now, "Nine years in Memphis, eight in Massachusetts,...reviving Kentucky Blue for chrissakes!!!  But all the lemmings wanna scribble on is Calipari can't handle the NBA!!  Cal is a college coach!! Well, I've got two words for that shi-!""

Coach Cal side-kicked a stack of used soda cups, sending them a good dozen or so feet across the hall.

Here we go again...

December 8, 2010
It was always the same dream...

Mikhail rolled out of bed.  It was 3:47 in the am.  The great city just beyond was silent, it's unbending roar hushed by the cold black waters of the East River.  The rangy Russian wrapped himself in a Siberian cloth robe and made his way to the private deck adjoining his 2,700 square-foot master suite.  As he wandered past the sliding glass gateway, a familiar digital voice intoned "Good morning Master Prokhorov, it is currently 38 degrees in Manhattan with a slight tailwind from the northwest. Be sure to attire appropriately for this cold setting, sir."  Cold?  Thought Mikhail...Cold??  HA!  Cold is when your spit freezes before it hits the ground!  This is like summertime in Moscow, old boy!

"No man is an island," wrote the great poet John Donne.  And yet, here on Deck 2A-A of his $300 million dollar custom yacht, Mikhail Prokhorov felt very much the island.  His ship, which he dubbed "Koschei" after the deathless antagonist of Slavic mythology, was moored evenly between the twin empires of Brooklyn and Manhattan; one conquered, the other ripe for conquest.  Never the less, here Mikhail now stood, a man apart, with one eye on his past and the other eye disquisitive, peering forever forward.

"And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

It was the same dream.  It was always the same dream.  Mikhail sees himself stumbling through the worn back alleys of the Golyanovo District of Moscow, everything topped in a fresh coat of black snow, when he happens upon James Dolan.  The two exchange pleasantries, and then, like gentlemen of old, immediately begin fighting.  It takes little effort to subdue the smaller Dolan, but when he does, Mikhail starts choking the very life from out of him.  I can feel my hands squeezing this little Irish bug, and I'm about to pop his ruddy head right off, when he just up and disappears!  He always just disappears.  It is like I get so very close to victory, and at the last moment...the very last moment... it eludes me...He eludes me.  It's always then that Mikhail wakes up.

The tall Russian gazes towards Manhattan, the last great unconquerable field.  "It eludes me...He eludes me," Prokhorov announces to himself.  "But not forever..."

Photo by Sean Doyle

It's 4:03 am.  A text message comes through.  The tall Russian glances down at his phone.  It is from Hova, and it reads "We need 2 meet. Coach Cal wants to quit."

To be continued...

Regression To The Mean

Posted by Sean Doyle

Chart Graphic by Sean & Colin Doyle

In his last seven pay-per-view appearances (1)*, Ryback has a 0-6-1 record. This tidy performance converts into a 0.0 winning percentage. In other words Ryback doesn't just lose, no sir, he loses with a devoted consistency that would make Barry Horowitz himself, blush.

Yes, yes, of course, we all know pro wrestling is a work.  From the carny days to the current corporate variation, wrasslin' always been a morality play staged with oddballs and strongmen, played with pulled punches and chair shots.  Nobody "wins" in the Olympic sense. However, wins and losses are a bit like equity.  Each "win" bestows credibility, while each "loss" tarnishes it (and yes, perhaps not to an equivalent degree - as cheap heel (villain) wins are a common place multipartite strategy used to protect the loser (babyface), draw heat on the winner (heel) all while extending the narrative to it's inevitable blowoff conclusion).  Given this structural imperative, I feel comfortable devaluing losses relative to wins to say a .75 or three-fourths of a whole, level. (2)*

More on this later. (3)*

Even within the walls of this debased paradigm, Ryback is still lacking credibility.  First introduced to us as an indestructible monster, Ryback made his way through a series of slack-jaw jobbers, rag-dolling them and becoming a minor YouTube sensation in the process.  From there he leapfrogged the obligatory mid-card title run (I.C. or  U.S.) and found himself square in the main event opposite WWE Champion and future Hall of Famer CM Punk.

Whatever equity was created in those first few squash-filled (and fun) months was about to be squandered over an unprecedented losing streak that stretches 8 pay-per-views and counting.  At this point, barring a major reclamation project, Ryback is little more than the American coequal of The Great Khali. (That is to say, a mid-card cartoon monster with just enough credibility to sell action figures but not nearly enough stroke to sellout buildings.)

One wonders if this was McMahon's strategy all along.  The Chairman of The Board loves to puff up monster heels (and faces, to a lesser extent) and then serve them up, fat with hype, to an established hero or veteran baddie of his choice.  It's a time honored sacrifice in the business and a much needed one, (4)* as a superstar is only as great as his/her competition.

And yet, one can't help but feel the nagging sting of buyer's remorse with Mr. 'Back.  Only six months ago the Post-Apocalyptic Turtle from Texas was the hottest act in the sport.  Arena's across the world were larded with lively FEED ME MORE!!! chants, with each Monday night refrain driving a tick louder on the noise-o-meter than the last.  The top spot on the card seemed all but perfunctory then, for the man born Ryan Reeves, and that's about the precise moment he got lost on the Road To Wellville...


Piloting a rising star's ascension is always tricky, particularly in the Information Age.  Fans are savvy to all the old hooks, and weary of them, all while paradoxically yearning to be hooked at every turn.  It is a modern Promoter's nightmare, this Brave New World, a non-linear multiverse of irony layered upon "reality" with a measured dose of smark, and all threaded together by the (occasionally) oppositional forces of dramatic correctness and profit seeking. The superstars who best adapt to this emerging standard will succeed big - think: Daniel Bryan, AJ Lee, The Shield, Damien Sandow, and Punk.  These performers are amongst the gifted few who can go modern or traditional without losing a step.  Listen, on a long enough time-lime, we are all hipsters. It is just a matter of who gets there first.

Ryback, by comparison, is a throwback. He's an old school beast who isn't defined by his move-set or wink-wink promo skills, but by his ability to destroy, and destroy with efficiency. In that regard, he's pure traditional.  And it's a tradition crafted on the value of appearing eternally invincible (think: early Mike Tyson, Clubber Lang, Goldberg, Heel Andre, H.O.P. Mark Henry, Ivan Drago, Typhon, Doomsday, or Larry King). It's within the holds of this hard mythos where the cold arithmetic of wins and losses reemerges, thus regaining its value.

Which brings us back to 0-6-1.

If your character's sole raison d'etre lies within it's imperishable nature, and the whole "what you see is what you get," swag, then what we get had better be greater than 0-6-1 in money matches, which is the mathematical equivalent of fuck all.  Now Ryan Reeves doesn't book the matches, but he does wear the boots.  He'd do well to add some depth behind those grunts.  Ryback has the look and intensity of a superstar, but unless he discovers his "inner man" he may find himself on the high ash heap of history with Vince McMahon's other broken toys.


DUMMY NOTES:

*(1) Not counting the Royal Rumble match, where technically there are no individual losers.

*(2) Why not devalue wins instead? Because lets face it, a win is a win, and we all love winners. In the uniquely American cultural commitment to victory, a little hustle (mild rule bending) is to be respected (albeit begrudgingly so).

*(3) I've often wondered just what a statistical revolution (a la Sabermetrics) would do to the traditional storytelling models and business imperatives of "sports entertainment." As both a simulated sport, and a long form dramatic narrative, pro wrestling would appear to have conflicting mandates.  But what if a sharpened understanding of the relative value of "wins" and "losses," winning percentage, reign length, ppv streaks, and the like, could lead to a better product overall?

*(4) Just ask any heel who worked for the WWF from 1984-1991. Or any of The Italian Stallion's opponents from Rocky's II-V.  Or any of Taylor Swift's ex-boyfriends...

We Are Back From The Dead

Two years to the day!! More pseudo-intellectual hipsterrific redundancies to come!!! Stay tuned. Or don't...

Peace.