"MONEYBALL HITS ONE OUT OF THE PARK

"Moneyball" is brilliant. It's not easy to turn a movie about baseball
and the implementation of something called sabermeterics into
a blockbuster hit, but Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour-Hoffman,
and a cast of actors who deliver spot-on performances, deliver like
Mariano Rivera in the 9th inning of a pressure-packed, can't-
look-til-it's-over game.

This film is easily one of the best of the year and instantly deserves
its place among the best baseball movies ever made. If you're
a casual baseball fan, you may become addicted to it as you are
Facebook after seeing "Moneyball". If you're a baseball junkie
who gets a rise out of on-base percentages, WHIP's, and OPS's,
then you will  probably see this movie twice in a week. It's
that good.

What makes the movie all the more impressive is the detail
in which the producers go through to make the baseball
scenes incredibly realistic, which is hard to do. Remember
"Bang the Drum Slowly"? Those actors couldn't make their
high school baseball team.  "Field of Dreams" was phenomenal
but they had Shoeless Joe Jackson,  one the greatest pure
hitters in the history of the game, if not one of its most polarizing
figures, hitting right-handed when he was actually a lefty.

The actors playing David Justice, Scott Hatteberg, and
Chad Bradford, were so similar to the players with their
appearance and mannerisms, it was scary. Even the guys
playing Mike Sweeney and "Everyday" Eddie Guardardo
were so good, I wondered if the former major leaguers
had come back for cameos.

Only the most astute baseball fans notice how Tim Hudson
wears hit hat so low that you can barely see his eyes. That
was spot-on in the movie. David Justice and that little flick
with the leg kick? Carbon copy in the movie. Seymour-Hoffman's
impersonation of Art Howe was scary good. Howe might
be a little upset with the big boiler (gut) Seymour-Hoffman
had because the former A's manager was thin and good shape, but
that was the only thing that was a little off.

Pitt, who admittedly, doesn't like baseball very much, puts
on a performance that is worthy of an Oscar in his portrayal
of Billy Beane, the A's general manager who tries to reinvent
the game by using stats to find and use undervalued players
whom nobody else wants.

"Moneyball" has some LOL lines throughout the film. Baseball
and the characters in it, usually provide enough great material
for a sit-com, but "Moneyball" took it to the next level. During
a meeting with his old and crusty scouting staff,  Beane (Pitt)
was trying to find player to replace Jason Giambi, Johnny Damon,
and Jason Isringhausen. Scouts were throwing out names of
players who might and might not be candidates. In describing
one player, the scout said, "His girlfriend is only a 6, so that
means he doesn't have any confidence."

The A's and their $41 million dollar payroll, or about $7 million
dollars less than what the Yankees are paying A-Rod and Derek
Jeter, come close to "reinventing" the game and getting to
the World Series. "Moneyball" did change the way a lot of
general managers scout and put together their teams. The Rangers,
Rays, Red Sox, Indians, and Padres, are all proponents of
"Moneyball". Billy Beane's theory has had a definite impact
on the game. Pitt's performance and the filmmakers expertise
puts "Moneyball" in a class all its own.

FAT GUY TO TOUGHMAN: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

Do you ever feel like certain events in your life could make for a good
sitcom? That's kind of how I felt when I showed up for the Toughman
Triathlon in suburban New York on Sunday. I picked up my registration
packet, and other than my name and address, there was a note highlighted
in neon yellow which read, "WEIGH IN!". I was like, seriously, I have
to get on a scale and weigh in? Because I was in the Clydesdale division,
reserved for those 200 or more pounds, my weight had to be certified.
42 athletes out of 1,000 were in the big and fat division and we actually
had to get on a scale. Nice. For the record, I was 236lbs, or 10 pounds
less than when I started training in earnest for the 70.3 mile event.

When I went to unload my Jeep of all the equipment needed for the
swim, bike, and running events, I had an uneasy feeling come over me,
the kind you get after checking and double-checking your list, but still
feel like you forgot something. Then, all of a sudden, I was like John
Belushi in "Animal House" when he discovered he accidentally killed
the horse in Dean Wermer's office. "Holy S-h-i-t! Holy S-h-i-t!" My
sneakers were missing. That's kind of like Derek Jeter forgetting to
bring his glove for a baseball game. What the hell was I going to do?
I couldn't go home and get them. The mall wouldn't be open until at
least 11am and I didn't even know where the hell it was. What a dope!
I had to get creative so I decided to size up all the volunteers at the
event to see if any had a jogging shoe that was a 10.5. Yeaaaaah. I'm
trying to focus on this event and now I have to worry about getting a
pair of shoes. I found a kid who was a freshman at Iona College. He
had a pair of maroon and yellow Nike Livestrong shoes. They were
size 10, but I didn't care. I gave the kid a $70 check. I'd worry about
the fit when I started the run.

With my mind somewhat at ease, I got ready for the swimming portion
of the event, a 1.2 mile leg in the Hudson River, which after all the storms,
looked like Chocolate milk. Oh, well, if you sign up to swim in the Hudson
you have to expect dirty water, drift wood, and even corpses. It is what it
is. Open water swimming is nothing like training in a pool. I describe it
as swimming in a blender. Arms, legs, feet, elbows, and heads everywhere.
It's like roller-derby in the water at the start.

My goal was to start out slow, get my breathing settled, and concentrate
on my strokes.  I started out slowly and that was about all I accomplished.
My heart rate was too fast and I struggled to catch my breath. This
wasn't good. I got  elbowed a few times and was kind of disoriented. I
had to do breast stroke for about 10 seconds to get my bearings again.
Once I did, I settled in and got the cadence of my stroke going. I finished
the 1.2 mile race in 36:02 which is not a bad time.

I really wasn't in any hurry to get through the transition from the swim to
the bike, which required me to take off the wetsuit, put on gloves, helmet,
and shirt for the bike. My only goal was to lower my heart rate to get ready
for the 56-mile journey through the rolling hills of Hudson Valley, New York.
I wasn't going to win the race, so I wanted to make sure I didn't rush
through things getting out on the bike.

The bike ride was challenging but fair. I had done a half-marathon in
Middletown, CT last June and the hills were ridiculous and brutal. This
ride was smooth  and solid, for me at least. One mile into the race, I
witnessed a nasty wreck  between two cyclists. One rider ended up
on his back, stunned and with a nasty case of road rash. At the 32-mile
mark, a girl was sitting on the side of the road crying because her tire
had blown out. That's my biggest fear, blowing out a tire during the race.
You just pray you don't run over a sharp object and then have to change
a tire with your heart rate blasting and your brow dripping with sweat.
I finished the 56-mile trek in a personal best of 3:29.45. And I celebrated
mostly because I got through the race without popping a tire.

As I got to the transition area, I was just hoping and praying that
those shoes that I bought from that college kid, weren't going to be
too tight and cause me to have miserable blisters. The shoes were snug,
but they were light and felt pretty good. I didn't even know if they
were actually running shoes. They sure didn't have a lot of cushion.
But they were a lot better than running 13.1 miles in my bare feet. I
started brutally slow in the run, trying to stretch out my legs after 3.5
hours on the bike. I felt pretty good and strong. My sister, Kara, sent
me a note before the race for inspiration. It read:

       "It doesn't matter how slowly you go, just as long as you do not stop"

                                                                                -Confucius

I don't know if Confucius ever did a triathlon, but those words stuck in
my head. I made it my goal NOT to stop, no matter how big the hills were
or the pain I was experiencing. The 13.1 mile run was a nice layout that
included streets and trails that led us by the Croton Dam which was a
spectacular site. I did not stop. Not once. I was also dedicating this race
to Brian Bill, A Navy SEAL from Stamford, CT, who was killed recently
while on a mission. There was no way I could stop. This guy used to
do Ironman Triathlons for breakfast before going on mission. He was as
tough as they come. A man of great courage and bravery who sacrificed
his life protecting our country and its freedom. I would not stop, I could not
stop.

As I came down the last mile of the 70.3 mile journey, I couldn't help but
think how much I enjoyed the entire day. The 4am wake-up call, the
weigh-in, having to buy shoes from a college kid, the frenetic swim, the
long bike ride and run. And all the pain gave way to pleasure, knowing
that I accomplished a goal and could finish in honor of Brian Bill, a
military man who could never fulfill his great promise. A life cut down at
the age of 31, with so much accomplished, yet so much left to conquer.

I finished in a time of 6 hours and 29 minutes. I didn't enter to win,
just to finish and enjoy the challenge. In all honesty, my training
was sporadic, at best. This was more about will than skill. 10% of the
race was about talent, but it really doesn't take much talent to run,
bike, or swim. We all can do it. 90% of the race was about persevering
through the pain and not giving up. That's what I'm most proud of.
Going the distance for Brian Bill and never stopping, no matter what.

Since the day started like a sit-com, it was only fitting that it ended like one.

After my 6 and half-our endurance event, I went back in the chocolate river

known as the Hudson. It was chilled just right and I stayed in to lower

my body temperature and cool off my joints. When I was pulling out out

of the parking lot, my Jeep was blocked by none other than a "Mister Softie"

Ice Cream truck. LOL. Larry David wasn't around but that giant vanilla

cone with chocolate sprinkles was. Man, the Fat Guy would've certainly

loved it.

DEDICATING 'TOUGHMAN' TO THE TOUGHEST MAN I NEVER KNEW.

When I plunge into the less-than-pure waters of the Hudson River on Sunday morning at 7:20am,
it will mark the beginning of the 70.3 mile Toughman Triathlon. Over the next six hours while
in the water, on a bike, and running the open roads of suburban New York, a million things are
sure to go through my mind as I try to complete this brutal test of endurance. But there will be one
person who will occupy most of my thoughts.

Brian Bill was a Navy SEAL who was killed on August 6th while on a mission in Afghanistan. He
was part of the elite, SEAL team 6, the unit that hunted down and killed Osama Bin Laden. Bill, a
Stamford, CT. native, was well-aware of the dangers and possible outcome when he signed up to
be in the military. He accepted it because the opportunity to defend our country and protect its freedom
was vitally important to him.

Many of us say we love our country, but how many of us would really put our lives on the line to
protect it? Not many. Brian  Bill did, and he paid the ultimate price for it. I never knew Brian Bill,
but he is my hero. We grew up in bordering towns and our high schools were part of the same
athletic conference. But I had graduated long before he was even a freshman at Trinity Catholic High School. When word came down that Navy SEAL team 6 had killed Bin Laden, I read everything
I could about SEAL's and their mental, physical, and emotional toughness. I wrote about them
in one of my blogs, proclaiming them to be the "greatest team ever."

When I found out that Bill was one of the Navy SEAL's killed when the helicopter they were in during
a mission was shot down by a rocket-propelled grenade, I was floored. This 31-year old man had
his whole life ahead of him. I studied his pictures and one of them showed Bill smiling, as if he knew
the world was his oyster and he could accomplish anything he wanted to. Bill had already received
his commercial pilot's license, was an accomplished mountaineer, spoke French, and wanted to be
an astronaut. I also read where he was a triathlete, completing several tough and grueling events.

Despite not knowing Bill, he has inspired me. He is pushing me to achieve all my goals. I'm doing
this Toughman Triathlon to honor him and his memory. Bill didn't get into the military or become
a Navy  SEAL for the personal glory. He was so unselfish, so brave, so pure, and so courageous.
He fought others, so we didn't have to. He put  his life on the line, so the people back home didn't
have to. He gave up his security and freedom, to make sure we didn't surrender ours.

I have the freedom to test my endurance and will in the Toughman  Triathlon on Sunday, September
11th, arguably the most significant day in our country's history. I'm dedicating it to Brian Bill, the
toughest  man I never knew.

THE RE-BIRTH OF BILL BUCKNER

That life-saving catch by Bill Buckner in Sunday night's episode of
"Curb Your Enthusian" did more than just keep a baby from dying. In a
way, it gave new life to a tourtured soul who had part of himself killed
off during a reality show in 1986.

When Mookie Wilson's painfully slow dribbler went through Buckner's
legs in the 1986 World Series, he became the biggest goat in the, then-
bitter and painful  history of Boston sports. Even though it was only Game 6
and the rest of the team botched a 3-0 lead to the Mets in Game 7,
Buckner's fate was sealed.

Fans in New England blamed Buckner for losing the World Series,
the weather, and the reason they never got laid in a bar filled with
naked girls at Sonsie's on Newbury Street. It was "Buckner Sucks,"
"He pulled a Buckner" and "I hate Billy Effin Buckner". Ernest Byner
never caught as much heat for fumbling away the Cleveland Browns
chance at going to the Super Bowl. Jackie Smith never had to endure
the shame and pain like Buckner after he dropped a sure TD pass
for the Cowboys in the Super Bowl XIII loss to the Steelers. Donnie
Moore didn't bother stick around very long after giving up that home run
to Dave Henderson of the Red Sox with two strikes and two outs
in the '86 ALCS. Instead of sending the Angels to the World Series,
Moore sent himself to an early grave, committing suicide a short
time later.

Bucker carried the pain and embarrassment from that chilly night
in New York 25 years ago. As much as he denied it, the mental
anguish had to be eating him up. People forget that Buckner was
a really, really good player. Over the course of 22 seasons, Billy
Buck hit .287 and accumulated 2,715 hits. 285 more and he's a
lead-pipe lock for the Hall of Fame. However, that was all washed
away when Buckner made that Big Error in the Big Apple.

But after last Sunday's performance with Larry David on "Curb
Your Enthusiam" don't we look at Buckner a little differently?
He was a good sport, getting abused once again by Boston
fans who couldn't forget that error in '86. A Jewish ritual wasn't
allowed to proceed until Bucker left. He missed a soft-toss
and watched an autographed ball from Mookie Wilson go
out the window and onto Madison Avenue. And finally, when he
came out of the hotel, he had to endure taunts from fans who
screamed, "Buckner sucks!". Oh, I know it  was only made-for-tv,
but that is what Buckner was forced to endure for many, many
years of his real life.

Boston fans softened up on Buckner a few years ago, after winning
its second World Series in four years, Buckner was asked to throw
out the first pitch on Opening Day. He delivered a strike and an
entire region seemed to exhale and give Buckner the pass they refused
to give for what seemed like forever. I guess when you reside in a sports
town with champions like the Sox, Celtics, Patriots, and Bruins, it's a little
easier to forgive.

Buckner had to endure more than any man should after making that
real-life blunder, it's kind of ironic that a life-saving catching in the world
of make believe, made us see Buckner in a whole new light.

WHEN LIFE CHANGES FOREVER IN BLINK OF AN EYE

Life is sometimes so good, we often forget how precious it really is.
We can be living the life one second, then, in the blink of an eye, it
can be changed forever. On August 28th, Tyler Hoog, a 17-year old
junior in high school was enjoying a sun-splashed afternoon in the
mountains of Colorado. He was four-wheeling with two of his high
school buddies, his father Michael, was in a Jeep ahead of him.

Tyler went off the road, flipped his Jeep, and it came crashing down
on its roof. Tyler's friends escaped with minor injuries, he wasn't
so lucky. Tyler suffered three fractured vertebrae and is paralyzed
from the shoulders down. In the time it takes you to snap your fingers,
Hoog's life has been changed forever. The lives of his family have been
forever altered. One second they were enjoying one of their
favorite pastimes, four-wheeling in the mountains, the next second,
the oldest son of Michael and Trenka Hoog, is struggling for his life.

"There's no way that anyone could ever prepare you for this," Michael
told a local paper. "The first 24 hours, you're really slammed by these
waves of anguish. You think about how life-changing it is for an entire
family and that's  devastating to consider. You kind of don't know what
to do."

If there is anyone who can figure out what to do, it's Michael Hoog.
I remember when he arrived on the campus of UNC in 1985 as one
of the cockiest freshman Carolina baseball has ever seen. He was
brash and had no fear. Hoog drove his Z28 from Colorado and arrived
with 1001 dimples on his car, having endured a hail-storm. The only
thing missing from car was a Titleist logo across the hood. Hoog didn't
care. As long as he had a tin of Skoal in his backpocket and boots on
his feet, it was all good.

As a pitcher, Hoog, a left-hander, didn't possess the talent of Josh
Beckett, but he was a gamer. I remember catching him when Hoog
was just freshman taking on the University of Miami. As a freshman, he
didn't care about Miami's mystique or anything else. Hoog battled and
battled and got a complete-game victory against the Hurricanes.

Hoog is using that same drive and determination to give his son, Tyler,
the best help he can get. He's already traveled across the country to
visit rehab centers in Baltimore and Atlanta.

"There's no telling what happens with rehab," he said. "The great thing
going for him, there's been incredible advances in spinal cord research
 in the past 10 years. He's only 17. In the next 10 years, who knows
what advancements will be made. He may come out of this thing."

Tyler idolizes his dad, who played in the Atlanta Braves organization.
He played first base like his father did in high school and wore number
17, the number his father donned at UNC. Tyler will most likely, never
play baseball again, much less even walk. His life changed forever in
the blink of an eye, which is so sad and so tragic. It just doesn't seem
fair.

Tyler is truly loved by so many of his classmates in high school and they are
rallying around him. They are raising money for his rehabilitation care which
is going to be long, arduous, and grueling. Kids at school are selling
"Hope 4 Hoog" wristbands for $3 and plan on conducting fundraisers
throughout the year. My former teammate is heading for the toughest time
of his life. Pray for him, pray for Tyler.

For information on how to support Hoog and his family, contact Travis
O'Hair at ohair_michael@svvsd.org or 602-410-6021.

To follow Hoog's progress, visit http://www.bit.ly/hopeforhoogie.

NEW CANAAN'S MARK REARICK: AN APPRECIATION.

Last January, when the digital numbers on my scale slowly and painfully turned over
from 249 to the perfectly round number of 250, I texted my good friend and former
teammate Steve Tonra, who was an excellent baseball player in high school. I wrote:
T-Man, I'M NOW THE SECOND MOST FAMOUS 2-5-0 FROM NEW CANAAN.
Truth be told, there is only one, and there will always be only one 2-5-0 in that ritzy town
of Connecticut, no matter what anybody's scale says.

2-5-0 is the nickname of Mark Rearick. He was extra large coming out of the womb and grew
 to be a mountain of a man. He put the barrel in barrel-chested, and even though he is light
on his feet for a man his size, 2-5-0 is like the dinasours in Jurassic Park, you can hear him
coming from a mile a way.

2-5-0. Rearick hit that magic number as offensive lineman as a senior in high school. Even by
today's standards, any 18-year old kid tippin' the scales at 250 is large, especially when he's
6'3. That  nickname stuck to Rearick like the tattoo on  Mike Tyson's face. It's on, and it's
never coming off. He was never Mark, Mr. Rearick, Coach, or  Dude. It's always been 2-5-0,
even when the scale spit out a number that was much greater than that.

But there's more to 2-5-0 than a perfectly suited nickname. 2-5-0 is Mr. New Canaan baseball.
He was teaching kids how to play the game going back to the mid-1970's. 2-5-0 was the
president of Babe Ruth baseball and coached every kid who came through the program. A well-spoken, intelligent man, 2-5-0 had more knowledge about the game in his right pinky, than
most of us will ever know.

2-5-0 has worked at New Canaan High School for so long, he's seen the kids of some of the
kids he used to coach, graduate. The man is an instution like IBM, Harvard, and Budweiser,
although 2-5-0 has never even sipped an alcoholic drink. He is "old school" and a straight-
shooter who arrived long before the Rubix Cube, Internet, Facebook, and Twitter. In this day
and age of "look at me" and "what can you do for thee", 2-5-0 is unselfish, genuinely caring
about his players, and always doing what was best for the team.

For many years, 2-5-0 was the varsity baseball coach at New Canaan High School. His teams,
as you might've expected, were intelligent and well-coached. He helped make average teams,
good and good teams, great. 2-5-0 was never one to keep track of his records and he probably
couldn't tell you the exact numbers of years he even coached. He just coached for the pure love
of the game. Oh, that may seem like a glitzky cliche in this day and age, but 2-5-0 lived and
breathed the game. It was his true passion.

A few years ago, the game was wrongfully taken away from him. He coached in a town where
every CEO thought they could manage better than Tony LaRussa and coach bettter than Bill Belichick. His assistant coach threw him under the bus and the new athletic director wanted
to have "his guy" running the team. If was the "perfect storm" that led the Rams to make a change atop the baseball program.

After all his hard work, dedication, and loyalty, 2-5-0 was no longer the baseball coach at
New Canaan High School. Baseball in New Canaan would never be the same. Legends
like 2-5-0, and he is a  legend, should decide when they are leaving, not some buttoned-up
adminstrator who uses too much starch in his shirts and doesn't have a pulse of the town.

But life isn't fair, after all, even Tom Landry, who built the Dallas Cowboys from scratch
and turned them into "America's Team," was unceremoniously dumped by Jerry Jones
when  he took over the team. That's sports, and that's life.

2-5-0's former players, coaches, and even umpires in the area, honored him a couple of
years ago, celebrating his contributions to the game. 2-5-0 is truly loved, admired, and
respected, and the number of people who turned out for the event supported that.
My friends reading this like Tonra, Timmis, Burke, Stevens, and Nanai all know what I'm
talking about.

We all go through school learning from a thousand different teachers and getting  instructions
from a hundred different coaches. There are only a handful that we really remember, and
perhaps just a couple you can say actually had an impact on your life. 2-5-0 is one of those
people and coaches that you never forget. He is a true legend of the game and a great friend.

Thanks, 2-5-0.

A GORILLA WEEKEND AND THE FAT GUY NEEDS A GPS.

Last Sunday, I interviewed a runner who had just won the woman's
division of a 10-mile road race. She told me she would've had a
better time except that she "made a wrong turn and went out of
(my) way a bit."  I chuckled to myself and wondered how anyone
could make a wrong turn on a course that is marked with other runners
ahead of you.

Three hours later, I wasn't laughing. I had gone down to the site
of the triathlon I will be competing in on September 11th. I wanted
to test the bike course and get my "strategery" down, as George
Bush famously said. I wanted to know where I could cruise down
hills, the pot holes to avoid, and locate the best fast food joints
in case I get famished, which there is a good chance I will. Extra
value meal to go, please.

As I followed the directions on my printout of the course which
were barely visible to this 47-year old dude, I came to a turn I wasn't
sure of. I stopped a motorist as he was coming out of a 7-Eleven
and he told me there were two ways to get to where I wanted to go.
I, of course, took the wrong route. I went two miles out of the way,
which meant I had to come back two miles to return to the course.
A great way to start a 56-mile journey.

Pounding my way through the rolling hills of Hudson Valley, New
York, I was on a pretty good pace, or so I thought. Another cyclist
blew past me as if I was standing still. Getting passed like that is
demoralizing, but when I noticed the perfectly-defined diamond
shaped calves of the rider, I didn't feel so bad. That guy rides his
bike as often as Bruce Pearl lies, a lot. Last summer, during a
triathlon I was competing in, I was climbing a steep hill when this
woman on a pink bike peddled furiously by me. The big numbers
stained on her arm gave her age away and when I noticed a 6
and a 2  side-by-side, I almost quit right there. Big guys aren't
built for speed on a bike. I sometimes think the department of
transportation is going to tag me with a red flag and put a sign
on my back that reads, "Over size load".

There was no quiting on my Sunday ride which got supersized
to 60-miles after my earlier mistake. It was a pretty comfortable
ride until I got to the 58-mile mark. I had cotton mouth and was out
of water. I thought for sure I'd pass a convenient store, but there
were none, making them not so convenient. I spotted a pizza
joint who's name I could not pronounce or even understand.

But I'm smart enough to know when that neon sign is glowing
and says "open", that's the only thing that really matters. I
dismounted my  bike and the pain strangled my body like G.I
Joe's Kung Fu grip. I let out a primal scream as if an alien was
stapled to the bottom of my stomach while pumping napalm through
my intestines. Yeah, I know. Don't tell you about the pain, just show
you the baby. This is the second consecutive week that I stopped for
a slice. It's become a tradition unlike any other for me. When I got
my slice of Sicilian pizza and 32 ounces of Gatorade, I was relieved
and in heaven.

I still had a few miles to go, but after completing the required
56 that I'll need for the race, I put it on cruise control. With the
finish to the ride in a park by the Hudson River, I envisioned
what I was going to do when I was done. Strip down to my biking
shorts and sprint for that big body of water and take the Nestea
plunge.

When I got there, it sure seemed like a Cinco de mayo after, after
party. I was in the minority and when I approached the water
I could of sworn I heard people saying, "El pez grande! El pez
grande!"  Interesting. When I got home I went on to Google translate
to figure out what they were saying. "The Big Fish, The Big Fish!"
is what they were saying.

Less than 21 days to go. I'm down to 234lbs and feeling a bit better
about my chances of finishing the half-ironman