Yo Dodger Blue

Harry Nilsson, of the great songs, magnificent voice and the going on the piss with John Lennon a lot in the 70s is a big fav here at sportreview.

Later in his career, he attempted to write a stadium chant (along the lines of creepy Gary Glitter’s Rock and Roll (Part Two)) for the LA Dodgers, who, like Harry, were originally from Brooklyn.

01 Yo Dodger Blue (L.A. Loves You) – Harry Nilsson (MP3, 6MB)

via For The Love Of Harrry

Book review – Moneyball

Moneyball is about a new approach to baseball, hiring Harvard statistics nerds to scout talent, going deep inside the stats to find the most effective players. Oakland A’s GM Billy Beane, portrayed as an obsessive perfectionist lead the A’s to the play offs several times early in the noughties with a fraction on the budget of most teams. Using number crunching to scout meant the A’s recruited players who were fat, old or just had weird technique who, crucially, got the job done – on paper.

Michael Lewis is one of the smartest writers around, and he brings this world of number crunching and hours alone with Excel to life. This book caused a storm in Baseball with theories that flew in the face of what ‘traditional baseball guys’ valued. It would be fascinating to see this approach applied to Cricket, another sport that lends itself to statistical obsession.


Michael Lewis article on Moneyball in Basketball (NY Times).

Roman Abramovich checks in


Didier Drogba: Yeaaaaaaaaaaah!

Roman: Greetings. We have not spoken for some time, but I have not been idle. No, I work hard to realise my vision of a world where my enemies pray for the swift, merciful death a chainsaw brings.

Didier Drogba: Number ONE baby, yeah!

Roman: This man Scolari disappointed me deeply. I saw him as my dark prince, sitting beside my throne, amusing me whenever I poked him with a sharp stick. But when I took him in to my Sloane Square rook, and he recoiled at my taxidermy Chelsea fans, I knew I must let him go.

Didier Drogba: Look at this big shiny trophy – IN YOUR FACE!

Roman: And so I walk alone once again. My only amusement is punching dogs in the face. This ‘Football’ is for the weak and fat, but remains the perfect cover for my operations.

Didier Drogba: Paaaaaaaarty!

Roman: Sleep well, my friends. Soon, you will know the triumph of riding trained bears through London streets awash with blood. Await my signal.

Taking care of NPC business with Dan Surchezk

Hola, I’m Dan Surchzek, former Senior VP, Adidas Minority Pussy-Ass Sports Division, Pacific rim. Me and Adidas had a little falling out when the partners actually dragged their sorry asses into the building and saw my new office. My $134,000 new office. You know, taste is an extremely personal thing – if you can’t handle sculpture of a gargoyle raping a goat, that’s your problem, not mine. Ces’t la fuckin’ Vie amigos.

I needed time to think, so I bought a ranch in Arizona. Got me a porch, a sniper rifle and a bluetooth headset. I can sit in the shade, take calls and nail baby Armadillos all day long. I’m a consultant now.

So yesterday I just finished a 25 mile run when the phone rings – it’s New Zealand on the line. No, they don’t wanna fit rocket launchers on NZL92 to make that shit interesting. It’s the Rugby Union. They’ve got a problem with the NPC. Sheesh. You ring the Surchzekenegger and interrupt his warm down with a Rugby problem? The NPC? What is that, the National Pussy Championship? Fuckin’ Rugby.

Anyhoo, it’s their money. They got three problems. Number one: The crowds don’t give a shit about the NPC. Number two: The players don’t give a shit about the NPC, they all want to be in France. Number three: The Rugby Union don’t give a shit about the NPC. Turns out they get more money for showing porn. Whatever. They need a plan to kill this piss-ant competition once and for all.

They came to the right place. The Surchzekinator always has a plan. When Pi Lamda Kappa had a situation, and everyone was screaming ‘I can’t believe a spine can do that!’ and ‘But I’m the Governor’s son!’ it was me who got the paddling pool and the wood chipper. I’ve had more great plans than Paris Hilton’s had freakin’ morons. I needed some time to think. I chugged Power-shakes with Jack chasers. I shot a few Armadillos. I went on a crying jag on the kitchen floor. When I came to I had all the answers.

Turns out it’s real simple. You got a competition you don’t want? No problem, you make it self destruct like a Surchzek Senior parole hearing. The crowds don’t give a shit? Screw ’em, we’ll have security rough the fans up when they enter, rough ’em up during the game, and rough ’em up on the way out. You want a drink? Drink goat piss. You want food? Eat shit on rye. $25 bucks each. Oh, and we’ll be playing ‘Barbie Girl’ all day long, as loud as it goes. You gotta be careful what you wish for, right?

Players wanna go to France? Whatever, there’s more Rugby players in New Zealand than crabs on my ex-wife. Actually, fuck those guys, we’ll force some midweek lady golfers to play for freakin’ Tarankai. How you like them apples? Three or four weeks of humanity-sapping action like that will bury the NPC once and for all. It’ll be like an Armadillo in the Surchezk cross-hairs. People will vomit when they just see the LOGO. The NZRFU can concentrate on makin’ money in the Super 36. Yeah, I’m consulting on that one, too.

So, the Surchzeker has solved all New Zealand’s problems and I’d only been consulting a week. Only thing to do, friends, is load the rifle, pour a Martini, and start thinking about breakfast. Catch you on the flip side, Amigos.