Has Pedro Gone Fishin’?

The last pitch for one of the most-vital Mets ever?

It’s a bit sad when the great ones fade away, in any sport. Very few know when to call it quits, and allow us to give them a proper gushy, appreciative good-bye. Typically, with a rocking chair and another Hummer.

Most athletes keep playing until someone pries the ball from their cold, wrinkled fingers.

Pedro Martinez, a sure Hall of Famer, was hoping to be the New York Mets‘ fifth starter this season. He’ll be 38 years old in the fall and, after a shoulder injury, pitched just 137 innings in the last two years. A free agent, he appeared to be reasonably healthy in the recent World Baseball Classic, giving up only one hit in six innings for the Dominican Republic

But he was said to be demanding an AIG-sized bonus – $5 million for one year. Certainly not the kind of $1 million offer that was rumored for him. He said he’d rather retire to his fishing boat. “I’m not going to let anybody disrespect my abilities or the way I am,” he told the New York Daily News. “I wouldn’t say I would want to pitch that bad.”

The Mets, like the rest of us in this dog of an economy, weren’t looking to go lavish. So on Monday, manager Jerry Manual announced that Livan Hernandez was starter No. 5.

It’s business. I’m not mad at the Mets. It’s too bad, however. Martinez, like a few others, deserves a grander exit. He deserves it because the Mets may not be perennial World Series contenders today had he not signed the four-year, $53 million deal that brought him to the Mets in 2005.

In fact, behind Tom Seaver, Pedro Martinez may be the second most vital Met ever.

He was the magnet that drew a swarm of Latin talent, and brought the kind of buzz back to Shea that, in part, allowed the new edifice known as Citi Field to be constructed.

He should be able to pitch there. Instead, looks like he’s going fishing.

Adios, Pedro.

Lenny Dykstra Must’ve Been Some Kinda Teammate

Derek Jeter. Chris Paul. Tiger Woods. Danica Patrick.

To most of us, the people mentioned represent elite athletes at (or near) the top of their respective sports. Even more, they’re quality people who represent their teams, their sport and their families with class.

To Lenny Dykstra, they’re apparently “three darkies and a bitch.” Jeter, Paul and Woods, all black men, are also “spearchuckers.”

That’s based on a conversation – rapt, is more like it – the former Mets centerfielder, car wash mogul, financial guru and failed entrepreneur had with Kevin Coughlin, a former employee at Dykstra’s doomed Players Club magazine, who dishes like Maytag about his ex-boss from hell in this month’s GQ.

Yes, Coughlin was fired by Dystra, which gives him more than ample incentive to lay out his former boss the way Dykstra crushed catchers at home plate.

Here’s the exact excerpt:

…On another occasion, I field a call from Lenny about potential cover subjects while I’m at home; Lenny’s on speaker when he proudly states, for both my wife and me, that “nobody can all me a racist – I put three darkies and a bitch on my first four covers.”

The first four Players Club covers featured Derek Jeter, Chris Paul, Tiger Woods and Danica Patrick.

“What was that Lenny?” I ask.

“I said I put three spearchuckers on the cover!” he replies.

To say Dykstra is a racist is like calling Bernie Madoff a thief — the term just doesn’t seem to do justice.

Frankly, though, I wasn’t all that shocked when I read those terms allegedly spewed from Dykstra chaw-stained lips. Maybe because I’m of a certain generation just young enough to remember segregation, just young enough to recall a time when every white person you passed on the street saw N—– first and a human being second, I’m just not all that surprised when someone spews this kind of filth.

It’s actually more surprising that he was able to keep it inside while still trying to leverage them for his own gain. In some circles, that’s called “pimping.”

I am surprised he spewed it so freely, and that he said it to someone who was not wearing a hood.

It reminded me of an adage widely held among many African Americans — both pre and since the miracle of last November — that no matter how successful, not matter how rich, not matter how much respect and acclaim a black person earns, to some he’ll always be just a N—–.

To Dykstra, Jeter, Paul, Woods and Patrick were good enough to sell magazines. But to him they were still just three darkies and a bitch.

If Dykstra holds these views, you have to wonder what he thought of some of the men who helped him in the 1986 World Series with the Mets. What did he think of George Foster, Darryl Strawberry, Kevin Mitchell, Dwight Gooden and Mookie Wilson, the African Americans on that team? What was he thinking as he traveled and showered when them day after day. As he hugged them with joy on the night they won the Series?

And what must the ‘86 Mets of Latin descent — Keith Hernandez, Jesse Orosco, Rafael Santana, Bobby Ojeda,Sid Fernandez and Rick Aguilera — have thought when they read those words attributed to their former teammate?

Chances are, they weren’t surprised, either.

Not surprisingly, Dykstra spewed back at Coughlin, calling the story “all lies.”

“I lived with [Darryl] Strawberry and [Dwight] Gooden,” he told the Philadelphia Inquirer.

And I’m sure they were some of his best friends, too.

Photo: Newsday

Sports Needs an Economic Attitude Adjustment

Great coach. But maybe a bit out of touch.

It’s getting ugly out there.

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell says he’ll slash his pay package by as much as 25 percent in order to save a few jobs. However, he can’t save them all. Anonymous team employees throughout sports are being sliced with the same sickle that has eliminated millions of jobs across America since last fall. NBA owners are divvying up $200 million in loans to cover millions in shortfalls due to diminishing ticket buyers and vanishing sponsors.

Every sport, maybe for the first time ever, is feeling the same economic pinch as the fans.

Pretty soon, NASCAR teams may consider carpooling.

And yet: Albert Haynesworth gets $100 million from Washington Redskins owner Dan Snyder, Manny Ramirez snub $45 million like it’s s stick insult before coming to his senses this week – and Jim Calhoun (pictured) just doesn’t get it.

Ugly.

The relationship between sports and fans has long been tenuous – not coincidentally, as salaries have risen to Wall Street CEOesque levels. That’s especially true among fans of a generation when their own paychecks carried pretty much the same digits as the men (and, yes, they were mostly men then, too) they cheered. Superstars always made superstar money, but there was a time when the working-stiff jock actually made near working-stiff wages.

So did most coaches – guys who chose the profession for the love of their sport more than the love of money.

Not anymore. Sports has created a new, young class of fast-twitch millionaires: guys who won the gene pool lottery and, in most instances, applied diligence, discipline and plain old hard work to their physical gifts and reached the highest level of their sport. And on the sidelines, pro coaches can afford to live next door to their superstars. In college, many make more than all but their elite players ever will.

I don’t begrudge any of them. I’ve always chuckled at the petty grumblings of folks who rail against them for one sin (”They’re not as good as their predecessors.”) or another (”They don’t hustle.”) when what they really mean is: They make too much damn money.

I typically chalk up their rants to ignorance and jealousy, and move on.

But now it could get uglier than a few rants. As more Americans are stripped of their livelihoods each day, sports is being given less of a pass.

Calhoun was asked at a postgame press conference to comment on his $1.6 million annual base salary at UConn, which makes him one of the highest-paid state employees at a time when Connecticut is facing a reported $944 million budget deficit that is projected to be $8 billion in two years.

His snippy response – “My advice to you is, shut up,” followed by a rift on how much money the Huskies generate for the university – has been polarizing. Governor M. Jodi Rell called it “embarrassing,” and the leaders of the state’s General Assembly want Calhoun to be reprimanded by the university. Conversely, many have defended the coach’s reaction, saying his success through the years more than justifies his compensation – even in these trying times.

Calhoun could have been more mature in his response, even if he has the data to back his argument. As it stands, he’s come off as the newest poster boy for the excesses of sports and showed how out of touch he is with Joe Taxpayer.

And it’s more than an isolated tempest. Attendance will likely be unaffected in Storrs, but loyal ticket-buyers elsewhere are deciding they can no longer afford to see their favorite team live or buy that $100 jersey; or they simply no longer have the desire to go see athletes and coaches who don’t seem to feel their pain.

As they grow weary of the kind of “not-my-economic problem” attitude displayed by Calhoun, Ramirez and others, sports may lose its status as The Great Escape. More fans may no longer see sports as a respite from the woes of their lives.

If sports can no longer serve that purpose, then what’s its purpose?

That’s a question no one wants to answer.

Reuters photograph

A-Rod’s Road to Redemption: Step Two

You listening?

Redemption is a long, treacherous road. And Alex Rodriquez is barely out of the driveway.

It will take every one of the 10 to 15 years remaining of his baseball career to fix his tainted rep, and he still may not. Along the way he’ll hit potholes, crash and he’ll even occasionally lose his way.

But he has to something, and on Monday A-Rod made a decent start by admitting to being a steroid user (although he never actually said the word) during his years with the Texas Rangers, after being outed by Sports Illustrated.

Now what?

Sure he has to show up at spring training and undergo rigorous question. He’ll have to admit and apologize and explain over and over and over again. But there are other actions he should take, actions that would help demonstrate the level of his remorse.

Call them Step Two in A-Rod’s own 12(at least)-step Program for Redemption:

* First, Rodriguez should immediately renounce his 2003 AL MVP Award.

A-Rod was very specific about the period of his drug use – during the 2001-2003 seasons that coincided with with Texas, with him he signed a $252 million contract. All three seasons were staggering statistically. he averaged 52 home runs, .305 batting average and 131 RBIs. The 2003 season, when he was voted MVP, was not his best – by the numbers – but he was a clear winner over Carlos Delgado.

Not so, we know now. Rodriguez should return the trophy to MLB and ask that it be awarded to Delgado. He should have his name purged from the voting and donate any performance bonus he may have received for the award to a baseball-related charity designated by the Rangers.

Yes, it could be easily dismissed by some as empty symbolism. But I would accept it as an acknowledgement of ill-gotten gains and certainly less symbolic than even his admission because it produce tangible effects.

* Then, he should publicly apologize to Rangers owner Tom Hicks.

Rodriguez may have done so privately already. At least I hope he has. If not, then Boras should be fired again and A-Rod shall repeat “naive” and “stupid” over and again. For his millions, for his providing Rodriguez with the platform to showcase his considerable talents and prove he’s the best player in the game, Hicks was duped. (Family version.) And he’s rightly angry.

This isn’t about the money (although in this economy even multi-millionaires are welcoming economic relief), but about betrayal. As much as he needed to publicly admit to steroid use, A-Rod must publicly and privately (face-to-face) express his contrition to Hicks, the man who essentially provided for him for life.

* Finally, he should use a significant portion of monies earned during his Texas tenure to do a great good.

Sixty-six million dollars. That’s what Rodriguez earned during his three seasons in Texas, according to reports. Who knows whether money is banked or spent, but perhaps the biggest statement A-Rod could make today is that he take, say, $35 million (I’m giving him a break for taxes), and establishing a fund to support programs across the nation to combat drug use among children.

In Internet search for “Alex Rodriguez Foundation” turns up something called the A-Rod Family Foundation, which describes itself as a charity “dedicated to positively impacting families in distress by supporting programs focusing on improved quality of life, education and mental health.” The site is peppered with cutesy pics of Alex and his ex-wife Cynthia at various events.

Uh, if the lack of attention to updating the site is any indication of Rodriguez’s commitment to the charity’s noble cause, well, there are a heck of a lot of distressed, less-educated, mentally unhealthy families out there waiting still.

Demonstrating a real and visible commitment to taking this screw-up and making it a transformational positive for kids – in the U.S. and in the Dominican Republic – would show not only a true understanding of the magnitude of his transgression but also the depth of his resolve to make it right, if it can be.

Rodriguez should announce these moves now. His next public appearance should not be about talking more talk (although he does indeed have more explaining to do) but walking the walk towards redemption. Or better yet, downshifting and trying to get there as fast as he can.

A Friend in Need …

Loyalty, in a suit

It’s time for some dictionary revision. Next to the word “friend,” insert Greg Anderson’s mug (Not his mug shot.) Anderson is Barry Bonds’ former personal trainer and childhood friend and right now it looks like the man standing between Bonds and a Marion Jones experience is Anderson. And if history is an indicator, Bonds will remain a free man. On Thursday, just a day after unsealing 200 pages of evidence in the goverment’s perjury case against the home run king, Judge Susan Illston told prosecutors that much of it (doping calenders and positive drug tests) won’t likely be admitted for the March 2 trial if a direct link to Bonds is not provided. That link? Right now, it’s only Anderson – who already spent more than a year in jail for refusing to testify before a grand jury investigating his friend. Since being released from the Federal Correctional Institution in Dublin, Calif., in November 2007, Anderson has shown no indication that his resolve is wavering. Without Anderson linking the codes and numbers on the calendars and tests to Bonds, or saying he told Bonds he was injecting him with steroids when he needled him with the Clear in 2003, well, your tax dollars spent chasing Bonds may be ashes. The judge also asked whether the Clear, which was not classified as a steroid until 2005, was illegal when Bonds was alleged to have taken it, an indication that offers another dose of “reasonable doubt” to the proceedings. And Illston order prosecutors to turn over to the defense the findings of a secret internal investigation into the conduct of government agent Jeff Novitzky, a lead investigator throughout the pursuit. Bonds didn’t quite hit the dinger (that won’t come until the judge rules officially in a few days about the admissibility of the evidence in question), but the former slugger went appeared to go three for three. Why would Anderson flip now? Beyond demonstrating an uncanny loyalty to Bonds, the guy has lived enough drama to make the feds look like Girl Scouts selling cookies (although those tykes can be quite relentless). Anderson’s father was killed after a poker game in 1976. His girlfriend was killed while he was in college. He also previously spent three months in jail and three months on home detention for pleading guilty to steroid distribution and money laundering in the investigation of the Bay Area Laboratory Co-Operative. Even if Anderson were to change his mind and sing, one of his own attorneys, Paula Canny, has said he’d be an unreliable witness. “He’s a multi-convicted felon who’s going to be impeached for everything,” she told the New York Daily News. Fortunately for Bonds, friends don’t have to be perfect – just a true friend.

Giambi ‘fessing up was his Best Swing

You gotta love a happy ending, particularly when it involves forgiveness.

The Oakland A’s had every right to scorn their prodigal son, Jason Giambi. He won the AL MVP award with them in 2000, then bolted after the following season for pinstriped pastures. Much greener ones, too. He signed a $120 million, seven-year contract with George Steinbrenner’s Yankees.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Soon, he got linked to the BALCO scandal and ultimately admitted using steroids. The confession tainted every swing Giambi had ever taken.

After the Yanks refused his $22 million option this year, putting Giambi on the free-agent market, I wouldn’t have blamed the A’s one bit if they’d left him begging for coins at the foot of the Bay Bridge.

Instead, they brought the former power hitter home, signing him Wednesday for one year at $5.25 million.

It never would have happened had Giambi not ‘fessed up.

It never would have happened if instead of admitting his transgressions he’d pulled a Mark McGwire (”I’m just here to talk about baseball.”)

Or if he’d continued to deny, deny, deny like so many of Sen. George Mitchell’s new friends.

Not that his mea culpa came easily. Giambi testified before a federal grand jury in December 2003 and reportedly said he’d injected himself with human growth hormone earlier that year and used steroids for at least three seasons. He feigned a half-hearted apology for some vague commission but made no clear public admission until the summer of 2007 when the players’ union agreed to allow him to speak with Sen. Mitchell rather than have him suspended by commissioner Bud Selig.

Before speaking to Mitchell, Giambi said in a statement:  “I alone am responsible for my actions and I apologize to the commissioner, the owners and the players for any suggestion that they were responsible for my behavior. I will continue to do what I think is right and be candid about my past history regarding steroids.”

As long and tortured as it took, Giambi throwing himself on his splintered bat not only paved the way for his return to the Bay Area. It also serves as an example to those who still want to play the game but still refuse to play the game.

Baseball is slowing stepping from beneath the steroid cloud, but tainted players still must meet the sport halfway.

The Obama Effect: Sports Still has Plenty of “Firsts” to go

In the days following Barack Obama’s historic election, a friend mused that the 44th President of the United States might be the “last first,” that in breaking what might be described as the ultimate color barrier, Obama might represent the last person of color whose ascension to a lofty position of power is cause for recognition, if not celebration.

In 2007, you no doubt recall, we embraced Indianapolis Colts head coach Tony Dungy and Chicago Bears head coach Lovie Smith for being the first African-American NFL coaches to lead their teams to the Super Bowl. Then after Dungy’s Colts won Super Bowl XLI, black Americans, including myself, got all misty-eyed at the sight of him being handed the Lombardi Trophy, standing in a place no black man had stood before. Seems kinda trivial now, doesn’t it?

Today, not too many years after the hiring of a black or Latino coach prompted shouts of “hallelujah” in minority circles, black and Latino head coaches are hired (and fired) in every pro sport, and in college basketball, without much fanfare. There was barely even a recognition of Don Wakamatsu’s historic hiring last week as the manager of the Seattle Mariners, making him the first Asian-American manager in a sport now profoundly infused with Asian talent.

Call it just another example of the Obama Effect. Now that we have a black president, why not hire a (fill in the minority) coach, GM, team president, etc.?

Don’t be fooled. Don’t be lulled into thinking The Dream is wholly fulfilled, or that we’ve reached the Mountaintop. It’s not Game Over. Not by any means. There are still barriers to conquer, especially in sports.

Who knew we’d have a black president before we had a sports commissioner who was not a white man?

Who knew we’d have a black president before one of the major sports networks – broadcast or cable – was run by someone other than a white man?

Who knew we’d have a black president before a national sports magazine was run by someone other than a white man?

Who knew we’d have a black president before we could stop wondering why it’s so hard for colleges to hire black men to coach their football programs?

Who knew we’d have a black president before American tennis could nurture another Arthur Ashe?

Who knew we’d have a black president before black athletes stopped being judged by the bad behavior of their most trifling peers?

Who knew we’d have a black president while the Boston Red Sox had not a single black player? (And the New York Yankees weren’t much better.)

Who knew we’d have a black president before NASCAR got it at all?

Who knew we’d have a black president before the NHL would figure out how to market its 20 black players, especially to kids who’ve never held a hockey stick or attended a game?

Who knew we’d have a black president before we no longer needed the Black Coaches Association?

Few if any people can claim with all honesty they thought they would see America elect an African-American president in their lifetime. Well, we have.

Now sports must get back to breaking its own barriers once again.

Associated Press photo

The $700 Billion Could be Better Spent on Sports

Which Bulls is this guy referring to?

Seven hundred billion dollars. That’s billion. Enough to make even Mark Cuban’s heart skip a beat. Seven hundred billion just sitting around waiting to bail out struggling, failing industries. But is the government targeting the right one? Do we really need to save Wall Street, an industry based on greed that essentially made its own bed? Or even the U.S. auto industry, which went about building Hummers while Asia was building hybrids?

The industry that could really use – and deserves – some of those bucks is sports. I know, greed thy name is (fill in any sports owner’s name here). And any industry that pays guys hundreds of millions for throwing a football or baseball or handling the rock doesn’t deserve another penny.

I don’t argue those points. But there are still a few nooks in sports where a bailout is worthy, at least as worthy as Wall Street and Detroit. To name a few:

• Chicago Cubs fans: Is there any group more deserving? They could use the bucks to buy the rival White Sox and merge the two teams. Maybe between the two of them, they can end the Cubs fans’ wait for a World Series win.

• Detroit Lions: Right now this city’s beleaguered citizens don’t have a decent NFL diversion. With the money, this team could maybe buy some heart.

• Boxing: Talk about an industry in need. With its share of the money, maybe it could buy the UFC, the sport’s only shot at renewed popularity.

• Tampa Bay Rays: To keep the talent that took them to the World Series.

• Kansas City Royals: This franchise deserves to be in the bidding wars at least once. At least enough to buy a copy of Tampa Bay’s script.

• Los Angeles Clipper fans: To buy the team from Donald Sterling. Could longtime Clips fan Billy Crystal do any worse?

• Ailing former pro athletes: To somewhat compensate for seeing another generation reap the rewards of their blood, sweat and broken bodies.

• American tennis: To build more courts in inner cities like in Compton, Calif.

• Urban schools: To revive gym and the sports programs that were cut even before the economy tanked. Yes, pay the teachers. But those of us who grew up playing sports and going to class know the value of both and feel for kids whose day ends at 3 p.m.

• The BCS: Never mind. The president-elect said Sunday night on “60 Minutes” that he’s going to “throw his weight around” to create a college football playoff. The BCS is about to become Lehman Brothers … gone.

• Fans everywhere: To simply be able to afford to attend games because, with all that’s going on outside our arenas and gyms, sports fans have never deserved their joy more – and been less able to afford it.

AP photo

Carl Crawford Does Need Words…for Now

Carl Crawford should be hearing from AARP any minute now. Or so you’d think, based on how the Tampa Bay Rays have been portrayed as a bunch of fun-loving, snot-nosed toddlers having the time of their lives against the tottering bullies, a.k.a the Boston Red Sox.

Compared with the Rays most prominent young stars — Evan Longoria, B.J. Upton, Akinori Iwamura and James Shields — Crawford seems as if he might be able to qualify for Medicare.

He’s 27 years old and has been in the majors for seven seasons. Yet until Tuesday night — when he went 5-for-5 in Tampa’s 13-4 spanking of the Red Sox in Game 4 that gave the Rays a 3-1 series edge — he hadn’t played a prominent role in the Rays highlight reel, and was largely unknown outside of Rays World.

But as Tampa stands at the brink of reaching the World Series for the first time in franchise history, he just may embody the true growth and spirt of this fledgling frachise more than his na-na-na-na-naaa-na teammates.

That’s because he’s been there. When many of his youthful teammates were swinging away in the minors or overseas he was having a devil of a time with a franchise many didn’t even consider part of The Show. A second-round draft pick by the then-Devil Rays in the 1999 draft, Crawford is the longest tenured player on the team.

Which may explain why when he was interviewed on national television following Tuesday’s romp, the native Houstonian could only say, I don’t have any words.

There are no words when you were stuck in a dark storm for years before the sun began to shine.

No words when you toiled in relative obscurity (even as you led the league in stolen bases twice (2003, 2004) and was twice recognized as an All-Star (2004, 2007).

No words when just a year from being baseball’s worst you’re on the brink of reaching the World Series, so close you don’t even want to utter the words: World Series.

And Crawford was almost unable to enjoy this journey. In August, he suffered a hand injury (subluxation of his right middle finger tendon) while trying to check his swing. That month he underwent an operation and for weeks wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to perform in the postseason. “I definitely thought it was the end of the season,” he told the Boston Globe.

If that’s what he thought, his efforts didn’t reveal it. Sensing this team’s historic opportunity, Crawford set up shop in the team’s weight room and ran sprints like it was spring training.

On Sept 26, he was activated by Rays manager Joe Maddon.
Should the Rays reach the Series, and certainly should they win it, perhaps Crawford will finally find the words to describe what he feels. He might even say World Series.

Baseball’s anti-Manny could out-Lance Lance

Jon Lester needs a bracelet.

Maybe a beaded necklace. Anything that would allow the rest of us to celebrate his journey.

The Boston Red Sox left-hander is a cancer survivor, one among millions throughout the nation (thankfully). But he’s the only one standing on the mound in Fenway park as perhaps the most dominant pitcher – and maybe most critical player not named Manny – remaining in the postseason.

I know October is breast cancer awareness month, and not enough can be done to bring awareness to the journeys of the millions of mothers, daughters, sisters and friends stricken with the disease; nor enough money raised to support families and research in search of a cure.

But Lester, who was diagnosed two years ago with anaplastic large cell lymphoma, stands as a new beacon for anyone who has been touched by cancer, and that’s just about everyone.

He underwent chemo, enduring all of its trials, and has emerged now as an example of the possibilities – the inspiring and positive ones.

He’s Lance without the bracelets. But also Lance without the baggage.

Still just 24, Lester is the anchor/ace of the Red Sox staff. He started World Series-clinching Game Four against the Colorado Rockies last fall, and is the key to the Sox’s effort to beat the Rays in the ALCS and reach the Series once again. He went 11-1 at Fenway this season, including a no-no. His stats this season have had him being compared to a couple of other Sox legends, Lefty Grove and Babe Ruth.

Going into today’s Game 3 start, he had not allowed an earned run in 22 2/3 postseason innings.

That’s not just surviving, which is the aim for anyone stricken with cancer. It’s life after surviving, life still lived at its peak.

Give the guy some bracelets so we can all be reminded of that.