KNICKERBOCK TANKSTER: TRADE DEADLINER DELIGHT

Money is the key. Balling is the door. Ain’t no locksmith ’round these parts. Guess you gotta figure it out.

The Moneyball Gangster

P.U. It smells like shit in here! Did I just unleash one of my classic Nasty Mode farts? Surprisingly, no!

The New York Knicks stink. Sitting comfortably within the bottom ranks of the East at 24-31, they occupy the 12th seed currently, and are going nowhere fast. For the majority of the season, the Madison Square Gardeners have played a fairly unwatchable, uninspired brand of basketball; a listless ballet of dribbling to nowhere, bricking eighteen-foot jump shots, and lackadaisical defensive effort. Julius Randle has slogged his way through a bowl of basketball oatmeal this season, trudging up and down the court as Tom Thibodeau spams “Randle Quick Post Up” from his NBA 2K playcall menu. This offseason’s surprise acquisition, native son Kemba Walker, has contributed nothing more than a few games to get Real Hooper Twitter excited. Derrick Rose, the sparkplug of 2021’s surprise success and lynchpin of their bench unit, has missed over a month of games with an ankle injury. They’re sputtering.

Despite all this, Thibs’ club has occasionally shown splashes of legitimate talent. RJ Barrett, despite early-season struggles, has turned into something resembling a star of late. Randle has displayed his All-NBA form for quarters, halves, and even whole, actual basketball games at times, especially on their recent west coast trip. Rookie wing Quentin Grimes flexes his potential for high-level 3-and-D on a nightly basis. The ‘Bockers have also enjoyed the, however incremental it may be, improvement of sophomores Obi Toppin and Immanuel Quickley. Impending free agent center Mitchell Robinson is doing his best Chamberlain, becoming an indomitable force within the restricted area. While the season for the Knicks is likely on the brink of full collapse, there lies a respectable level of ability within their roster.

Through this season’s ups and downs, what has become evident is that the Knicks’ roster is badly in need of some restructuring. As it stands, the Knicks have with a jumbled roster of talented youngsters, struggling veterans, and, well, Julius Randle.

With finite minutes to go around, young talent floundering on the bench, and a coach seemingly incapable of not playing his veterans, a thinning of the herd seems to be in order in New York. While they publicly stated they are not interested in solely freeing up playing time if they make a trade, namely for floundering guard/wing Alec Burks, this should be the focus, and is most likely the front office’s private intention.

Who stays? Who goes? Who comes in? What are you wearing? If you’re asking these questions, save for the last one perhaps, you’re on the right website. The Moneyball Gangster is here to guide you through all the Knicks’ options before today’s 3PM deadline.

PLAN #1: TAKE OUT THE TRASH

The Knicks have some veterans on the roster taking up cap space and playing time, in return for next to (or sometimes even less than) nothing in return. They are, namely, Walker, Alec Burks, and Nerlens Noel.

Walker, famously pulled from the rotation earlier this season, has somehow offered even less than he did before his benching, scoring 4.6 points on 11.5 (!!!) percent shooting from deep in his last 10 games. Burks has been unfortunately miscast as the team’s point guard during Walker’s numerous rest-related absences and has struggled, completely disappearing from both box scores and defensive rotations at times. After finishing last season third in blocks per game, Noel has regressed as a defender, has barely stayed healthy, and owns the worst hands New York has seen since Lucas Duda patrolled left field for the Mets.

With G League-dominator Deuce McBride, recently-acquired Cam Reddish, and pogo-stick big Jericho Sims ready and waiting in the wings, the Knicks should be exploring every possible avenue and cross-street to get Walker, Burks, and Noel off the roster.

This seems, on its face, the easiest and most logical path for the Knicks to take. Trim the fat and play the kids. The problem, however, lies within the facts that these players are very bad currently, and none of them are playing for free. Each of them makes between $9 and $10 million and none of those contracts expire after the season either, making them even less attractive to potential suitors. Knicks Twitter had fun the past two weeks attempting to package all three with draft picks to make moves for higher-salaried players like DeAaron Fox or CJ McCollum, both of whom are now unavailable after Tuesday’s two blockbuster trades, this was unlikely to begin with.

All may not be lost in the Knicks’ attempt to free up playing time, which again, they have said is not their intention, but probably is. While Walker and Noel both reek and can’t be trusted to play every night, Burks may have utility to a contender looking to bolster their bench. He can shoot, allegedly, and nominally act as a primary ball-handler in a pinch. Teams like the Suns and Lakers come to mind as potential dance partners on the Burks level.

If the Knicks can pull off a swap of cheap-but-still-bad contracts with Burks, they may be motivated to embrace a youth movement by waiving Walker unceremoniously and gluing Noel’s preposterously fragile legs to the bench. Not ideal, but definitely works.

PLAN #2: GET A NEW ENGINE

Tom Thibodeau refers to Randle as the team’s “engine” ad nauseum, alongside his typical “make the right read” and “let the game tell you what to do” platitudes. And last season, he unquestionably was the straw stirring the drink. An All-Star, All-NBA, Most Improved season by Randle drove the Knicks near the top of the East and into the playoffs for the first time since shitty indie folk music dominated the airwaves; an effort for which Randle was rewarded with a modest-for-a-star contract extension this past August.

Randle’s struggles have been well-documented this season. The surprise three-point stroke he displayed last season has gone into hiding once again, and Thibodeau’s reliance upon him to orchestrate the offense in lieu of a true point has been rough on the eyes at times. Defensively, Randle has been a shell of his form last season, missing rotations and looking uninterested in the concept of NBA defense in general. These struggles, combined with the highly-publicized thumbs-down Randle sent the Garden faithful, have made Randle a favorite among the fanbase’s Fanspo mock-trade machinations.

While trading Randle and his $117 million contract for Fox or McCollum is an impossibility now, moving off Randle never seemed to be the move for the Knicks this season. For one, trading the guy who played Franchise Savior for you not a calendar year ago just seems like a bad move, vibes-wise. Secondly, while Barrett has improved, Randle has shown recently that when he plays with a modicum of effort, he is still far and away the team’s best player. Randle possesses an on-ball gravity and shot-making ability no one else on this current Knick squad has.

Folks questioning what the ceiling of a team relying upon Randle for a lion’s share of the offensive production is, and folks who want to free up opportunities for high-flying sophomore Obi Toppin, have legitimate concerns. Randle’s penchant for post-ups limits his efficiency upside as a number-one in an offense, the role he has played since arriving in New York in 2019. And Toppin does deserve to play more (perhaps alongside, not instead of, Randle), if only for the reason that watching him play whips absolute ass.

But any jump to trading Randle is prisoner-of-the-moment thinking. Not only is the forward’s market value the lowest it may ever be, but any evaluation of the team’s offensive potential with Randle as a cog should be walked back until the Knicks have at least a reliable mid-tier initiator. The Knicks would prove wise to hold on to Randle, get a goddamned point guard, and see what Randle’s value is as a secondary creator and primary finisher.

PLAN #3: CONSULT THE DARK LORD ZORLON AND CONJURE A HEX

Now this, I will admit, is a bit of a long shot. I can’t imagine this is the path Leon Rose and company have in mind for the deadline, but it may prove the most prudent.

While it may be a bit late in the season for any deadline deal to have any significant impact on the Knicks’ record, completing the dangerous-yet-life-affirming quest up the Forbidden Mountain to the lair of Lord Zorlon in search of the Darkest Hex may grant New York the advantage they have been searching for.

It’s a daunting ask: one must first traverse the treacherous terrain of Treacherous Terrains, fend off blood-sucking Evil Weevils in the Disgusting Swamp of Trash and Garbage, and answer the riddles three of Robert Riddles, annoyingly portrayed by Rob Riggle of film and TV. And that’s before making their ascent to the peak of Forbidden Mountain. But the Knicks may have the personnel to get it done, and if they do, watch out.

It is foretold in legend of yore that Zorlon will reward those that conquer the path of peril with the Darkest Hex upon whoever the brave heroes choose. Obviously, in this situation, the Knicks would choose to hex their opponents for the rest of the season. Zorlon does require a small donation of shekels in exchange for his services, the Knicks are all millionaires. They can afford it.

Humdiddadecks, humdiddadee, I cast this hex out upon thee! Zorlon would say, as the legend foretells. Then, clouds of evil energy will swirl atop Forbidden Mountain as the Dark Lord conjures his powers of knavish sorcery. Lightning crashes. Somewhere, a new mother cries. Thunder now claps. Rain torrents upon the mountaintop. Then, in a flash–our Knickerbocker heroes are magically transported back home, instantly.

Thought Evan Fournier was a good shooter before? Well, imagine how wide open he’ll be when the nearest defender turns into a pile of ash and bone! Tired of Julius Randle’s post-ups? You won’t be after one shoulder to the chest blasts his defender into a dimension where everyone looks like Ren Höek, but in human form. Wow, check it out! Mitchell Robinson just became the first player in NBA history with 100 rebounds, 100 blocks, and 12 souls stolen during a regular season game. Awesome!

This is quite the no-brainer for the Knicks, if they believe that they are of the right mind, body, and spirit to conquer the quest laid out before them. I believe they can do it, and should do it, if they are serious about contending this season. Let’s bring the Larry O’Brien Trophy back to Madison Square Garden, folks. Embrace the darkness.


TURKEYBALL LEGENDS: GRAVY GUYS GALORE

Gobble gobble, bitch. Everybody eats.

The Moneyball Gangster

It’s Thanksgiving, folks. It really is. Pass the stuffing! Pass the gravy! Pass a goddamned kidney stone, for God’s sakes. I don’t care! Seriously, I don’t.

It’s the holiday before the holidays; the feast of feasts before the other feasts get feasted. And what pairs best with our yearly turkey-and-starch buffet? That’s right, gang: football. The Lord’s game. Be it a game of two-hand touch in the backyard, or watching the Cowboys and Lions battle their opponents on the gridiron, pigskin has become as ubiquitous around the end of November as the dang turkey or other various dishes!

But what you may not have known about our favorite game is that many of the legends of the game have had names similar to what you may find around your Thanksgiving table, maybe even enough to field a team in the backyard!

THE MONEYBALL GANGSTER TURKEY BOWL ALL-STARS

Bobby Greene-Beane, QB

Bobby Greene-Beane, mere hours before losing his leg.

Maybe you don’t like Aunt Carole’s green bean casserole. Maybe she’s not handling the separation well. That’s fine, but it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without some Greene-Beanes.

The dual-threat quarterback out of the University of Arkansas set the NFL on fire in his record-breaking 1964 season, in which he became the first player in NFL history to both run and throw for at least 1,000 yards in a season, and was definitely the first to do so while wearing his trademark on-field earmuffs. Greene-Beane’s career was unfortunately cut short by injuries, as his offseason hobby of “shaking strangers and demanding they lead him to The Money Hole” turned violent in the spring of 1966, leading to a severed left leg.

Jeff Stuffing, RB

Stuffing, contemplating the value of a human life.

Stuffing: the wettest bread. We love the wet bread. Gotta eat Da Wet Bread.

Perhaps the greatest player on our Turkey Day squad, the legendary Stuffing brings over 10,000 career rushing yards, 7 All-Pro nominations, and 2 Super Bowl appearances to our Thanksgiving backfield. Ironically, stuffing Jeff was almost impossible, as his 5.9 yards-per-carry rank among the all-time leaders since defenders were afraid of the loaded handgun ol’ Stuffy was known to concealed-carry at all times. Let him score or get shot. Hmmm, yeah, I think it’s gonna be “letting him score” for me!

Terence Dinner, WR

Terence Dinner, running with a ball that he did not drop.

Thanksgiving is all about Dinner, and Dinner was all about catching the ball. Though Terence Dinner’s career was not very illustrious (career season-highs of 43 catches and 540 yards), he was one of the most sure-handed receivers in league history, dropping only three passes in his eight-year career. A drama major in his time at the University of Nebraska, Dinner may be more well-known for his turn as the voice of TD the Turbo Dog in TD the Turbo Dog, The Dog Who Turbos, a short-lived Disney XD program about a football-playing dog who turbos.

Julius Cranberry, WR

Julius Cranberry in one of his signature “Cranberry red” suits, which he is famous for wearing and naming after himself.

Cranberry sauce may be the most divisive item on the Thanksgiving table. Canned or fresh? Is it even good? Well, gang, I can tell you a Cranberry who is good: Julius, and boy is he fresh (not canned, see: two sentences ago).

As sharp a route runner as he is a dresser, Cranberry is one of the league’s top receivers, with over 1,000 receiving yards in six of his eight career seasons. This Thanksgiving, I bet his quarterback will be saying “hey, pass the cranberry sauce!”, because they are probably such good friends.

“Gravy Boat” Dennis, TE

“Look at him go! It’s “Gravy Boat” Dennis!” -Lyndon Banes Johnson, President of the United States

Yachts, pontoons, schooners, dinghies; all boats, but all winterized and inside garages come Thanksgiving. On the Day of Gobbling, there is but one boat, and floats upon a moat of brown: the gravy boat.

“Gravy Boat” Dennis, whose legal name contains quotation marks, revolutionized the tight end position in the NFL, setting league records for receptions, yards, and touchdowns by a tight end, which held until he was surpassed by the legendary Barton “Pants” Jeans in 1997. The first great blocker-catcher combination, “Gravy Boat” opened up the Colts’ offense and gave them an element they never had before: bismuth.

Donyell Pumpkin, OT

That’s a big Pumpkin!

Unfortunately, not many offensive linemen have had Turkey Day-themed names over the league’s lengthy history, so our offensive line will be a unit of one: Donyell Pumpkin.

Pumpkin, who entered the league as an undrafted free agent out of the University of Washington, was a solid, if not spectacular tackle on both the left and right sides of Denver’s offensive line in the 2000s, and was a member of their 2004 AFC Championship Game team. Upon retiring in 2009, Donyell Pumpkin joined the Society for Men Who Dance Funny at Weddings and has yet to re-emerge in the public eye. Maybe he’s working on a recipe for the perfect pie (pumpkin, probably, given his last name!)

Huggins “Collard Greens” Chandler, DT

“Collard Greens” Chandler waits for the opposing offense to get back from the store.

Perhaps not a staple of all American Thanksgivings, but an absolute must in Southern homes, collard greens are a pungent, smoky addition to any Turkey Day buffet. I like them, but maybe you don’t. That’s what makes this great country of ours so good. I can say something, and you don’t have to agree with me. But we can still be friends.

One of the most feared pass rushers of his era, Huggins Chandler led the league in sacks from 1971-74. Nicknamed “Collard Greens” because of his answer to a reporter asking him “What do you think your nickname should be?”, Chandler wreaked havoc in both opposing backfields and restaurant bathrooms, as he was infamous in the Dallas area for eating so much food that he would poop all over the fucking place, nasty style. Gross! I don’t want to eat poop.

Macaroni and Cheese, LB

A dish of creamy macaroni and cheese.

Delicious!

DeMarius Pilgrim, CB

DeMarius Pilgrim watches unspeakable atrocities be committed in the heavens above during his time in Detroit.

Of course, there would be no Thanksgiving without the Pilgrims. Landing their big dumb boat on these hallowed shores is why we’re all here, and we are forever grateful and thankful to them for landing their big dumb boat here.

DeMarius Pilgrim was a Plymouth Rock-solid cornerback throughout his lengthy NFL career. Shutting down opposing receivers was his game, and DeMarius Pilgrim was his name (and still is, as he is not dead as of the writing of this article)! Fans of the Jaguars were treated to many Pilgrimages to the end zone in the 2007 season, as the talented speedster returned three interceptions for touchdowns that year. Pilgrim, now retired, spends his days giving back to his community by rounding up geese and siccing them on nearby insurance agents.

Bryan Giblets, K

“I’m gonna kick this ball so fucking far,” Bryan Giblets says.

Let’s talk giblets. Sure, they’re gross. Of course they’re gross. They’re innards! But that little bag of fun stuffed inside your frozen turkey is the key to making a rich, flavorful gravy.

Bryan Giblets was a kicker for several teams in his underwhelming career, but there weren’t any other Thanksgiving-named kickers. Most famous for missing three kicks in a game against the Raiders as a member of the 49ers, Giblets bounced from team to team, missing kicks and being named Bryan Giblets. Let’s hope our team never has to kick!


I hope everyone reading this has a nice Thanksgiving and enjoys their Colonizer’s Lunch. I have many things to be thankful for this year: Mrs. Moneyball, my cat Louie, Julius Randle, my cool friends, my loving family, a new season of Succession, and pale ales that clock in around 5-6% ABV. Love everyone who loves you, and be nice to yourself.

MBG #2: TAKES ON DEMAND

The money? That’s mine. The ball? That too. But your mind? That’s up to you. Let’s roll.

The Moneyball Gangster

My van is a nice van. Mercedes-Benz Metris. Top-of-the-line stuff. I see a lot of service vans around the city where the dashboard is all covered in junk: candy wrappers, various colors of crumpled paper. Junk. Not mine though. Only thing that’s on my dash is one of those little sunflower guys that dances when it’s in the sunlight. Sometimes it matches the beat of the song I’m listening to. Pretty funny.

To be frank with you, I don’t really need a van. Way too much space. I could pack all my gear into a Ford Focus or something like that, but when you’re given the option to ride around in a fully-loaded Metris with free SiriusXM radio, you’d be a fool to not take it, and I’m no fool.

I pull up to my fourth and final stop of the day. “Suds on Sixth”, a nice little beer-and-smokes shop on Seventh Avenue. They used to be on Sixth, but one of those IV drip bars went in next door and the rent went way up, so they moved. Jerry, the owner, didn’t want to pay for a new sign, I guess. Jerry calls me in to fix his NFL Hot Tix machine all the time, but sometimes I think he just wants someone to talk to.

I throw the Metris into park, grab my diagnostic reader and few other tools out of the back of the van, and head in. Jerry’s there to greet me, wearing the same thing he always is. “There he is,” he says, and extends his hand for a shake. His palms are always a bit greasy and my hand comes away smelling like cheese. That’s fine, I’ll never turn down a handshake.

What’s the problem, Jere? We walk over to his machine. He’s got an older model, which is fine. Doesn’t really matter, no matter what the suits try to sell you every sixth months. Just update the software and you’ll be right as rain, I tell them. And Jerry does, even if he doesn’t quite understand how it works.

“I think there’s a guy in here,” Jerry explains. He raps on the front panel of the machine. “Like a little tiny guy or something.”

A guy? A little tiny guy? Are you sure?

He’s not sure, but he has a “hunch”. Customers have been complaining about strange, ugly sounds, such as “Oh, put it on ice, baby!” and “Right on the money, honey!” emanating from the machine, as well as the large pile of half-consumed cartons of heavy whipping cream that has grown about the feet of the machine. Bad catchphrases, and the cream was attracting mice.

I grow concerned as I, a man with seven-plus years of experience repairing NFL Hot Tix (as well as NBA Press Pass and MLB Scorecard) machines, have never heard of such a problem with one of our apparatuses. Never mind the bad, stupid catchphrases and the expanding dairy-drunk mouse population, but the machine has been printing Hot Tix from before our service existed. One customer, Jerry explains, ordered a ticket for Is Lamar Jackson The Real Deal? (a top seller these days), but received a printed rant about how Curtis Enis’ power-running style will open up Chicago’s offense. Twenty years out of date, and somehow also incorrect. Not up to company standards.

Another customer complained about receiving a ticket that once rubbed off, revealed a single image of former San Diego running back Natrone Means smiling and giving a thumbs up, with a large comic book-style heading that read “Natrone Means Business”. For a memorabilia collector, specifically those accruing relics of replacement-level running backs of the 1990s, these Hot Tix may be of some worth, be it monetary or sentimental. But for the Joe Sixpacks of the world, inserting their Money Chips into the machine in search of the hottest, most in-depth NFL takes of the day, these will simply not do.

Have you tried opening it up?

He hadn’t. He couldn’t quite remember where he had placed the master key. He lost his keychain somewhere between his home (the apartment above the store) and the late-night leapfrog club he attends, because it’s the last place an honest, hard-working man like him can play a decent game of leapfrog in this goddamned city. No problem, though. A good repairman always has plenty of extra keys on him, and I’m a good repairman. I slide my key in and turn.

Hyuuunngh.

That’s odd, I say to Jerry, as the machines are not programmed to moan when keys are inserted into them.

“See? Guy.” Jerry points to the machine. What once sounded ridiculous now seems legitimate. Is there a little guy inside this machine? How? I turn the key fully and crack the front panel open at the hinge.

The sound that sprung forth from the machine as I opened it was nothing short of blood-curdling. Quite possibly the worst sound any man, machine, or man-inside-machine has ever made. Jerry and I plug our ears as the machine lets out a howling, horrified yawp; a scream louder than any cotton-candy-addled child on a rollercoaster, or Michael Myers victim, could muster.

The scream subsides after a few seconds. You might be on to something with that “there’s a guy in here” theory, I tell Jerry.

“Yeah, there’s a guy in here, alright,” says the machine. The machine’s voice has a solidly Midwestern tinge to it, a mid-tone tenor soaked in Miller and hot Italian beef.

Jerry hits me on the arm, perhaps a bit harder than he intended to. “I told ya! Look at that!”

Where are you? I ask the voice from the machine.

“I’m in here,” it responds. “In the freakin’ ticket machine you so rudely opened.”

Sorry about that, I say to the inanimate object splayed open in front of me. Typically, I’m not one for such trite and silly matters, such as apologizing to a disembodied voice inside an NFL Hot Tix machine, but these are uncharted waters. Where are you, exactly, in the machine? I ask, clicking the switch on a pen-sized flashlight that makes the Law and Order “gong-gong” sound when turned on.

The machines are large, but not large enough to house a full-sized human being, so perhaps I was in search of a football pygmy, a field mouse of the gridiron. I shine the light around the inside of the machine. Blank tickets, the processing unit, the typical cast of red, blue, and yellow wires–but no miniscule man.

“You won’t find anything in there,” the voice says. “I’m everywhere and nowhere. I’m–I’m an indigo, of sorts,” he continued, presumably substituting “indigo” for “enigma”.

“You see, I am the machine now. The machine is me, and I am it. This is my home now, and it is…my home. Listen, I’m not too great with the words these days, but I am good at being this machine, so I’m gonna keep being it.”

Great. Well, we need you to not be the machine anymore.

“I got customers to serve, and these tickets are a big thing for them. I need you outta there, guy,” Jerry says.

“No can do, brother,” the machine continues. “Like I said, this is me now. If you don’t like it, well, that’s tough shit. Pardon my Franch.”

Listening to this mysterious Illini is making me anxious, partly because I still have no earthy clue where it is coming from or who it is, but also because it is struggling to say anything correctly.

“I died not too far from here. Nice fall day. 1997. Squashed to death by a grand piano being lifted into an apartment,” the voice explains. “Splat. Like a damned Looney Tune. But, before that, I was the sports editor at the Evansville Enquirer. Nice little paper, not too many writers, but I was the king of the world. People liked my opinions, and even when they didn’t, they’d read just to get pissed off at something. Watch this.”

A blinding ray of blue light shoots out from the machine. Jerry and I instinctively cover our eyes, shielding our retinas from the jolt of luminosity. The light subsides, and small, glowing orb now floats around the beer store.

“What the hell? What are you?” Jerry says. He gets on his knees and folds his hands in prayer. “I’ve done nothing wrong, please spare me!”

Get a grip, I say to Jerry. If there’s a god, surely they aren’t taking earthly form as an NFL Hot Tix machine.

“I’m not God. I’m Tubsy. Tubsy Briggs. Well, the soul of Tubsy Briggs, really,” the orb says. It floats by a promotional display for Grizzly Bear Brewing Company’s new Skiier’s Delight Belgian White. There’s a large inflatable grizzly in the display, wearing a shirt reading DRINK MORE BEAR. Kind of clever, but a bit too close to the Chick-Fil-A cows for my liking. Originality in advertising is dead, and the American public is worse off for it.

The orb zaps itself inside the inflatable bear. The eyes of the bear flash alive in a way that is truly too horrifying to convey in words. Its mouth opens. “Look, I’m a bear now,” Tubsy’s voice exclaims. “I could do this all day, if I wanted to. I think if I do it too often though, I will actually die. Takes a lot out of me.”

Tubsy, if you can be anything you want to be, why bother the honest, hard-working people of this city? They just want their tickets, and Jerry just wants their Money Chips.

“That machine,” the bear says, moving itself from the display and closer to the Hot Tix, “is the closest thing I have to the–time before.” Tubsy the Inflatable Bears starts to sniffle, and his eyes, though completely black and made of vinyl, are visibly steamy. “In there, I can be the old Tubsy. Givin’ out takes, drinkin’ whippin’ cream, and watchin’ their eyes roll when I tell ’em Dallas should move on from Troy Aikman because his forehead’s too big.” Tubsy is now crying, his tears comprised of what appears to be heavy whipping cream.

He takes a paw and wipes the cream away. I turn to my left and notice Jerry is also crying. “I know how you feel, Tubs,” Jerry says, his gravelly voice rattling under a weight of despair. “This store is all I have left of my father, who also got smushed like a stinkbug underneath a falling piano. This is my home.” He takes a solemn look around his brick-and-mortar retail castle. This is where he lives on.” Jerry steels himself. “You can stay here forever, Tubs.”

No he can’t. While I understand Jerry’s sentiments, this is no time for emotion. SporTakes property has been compromised by a spectre, and it must be ousted. You have to go somewhere else, Tubsy. Your takes are outdated. We have no use for you.

“You heard the guy, he said I could stay here forever. You said that, right?” The bear extends an inflatable paw towards the shopkeeper. Jerry shrugs, deferring to me.

We need you out of here, and while, yes I feel bad for taking your home, it’s not yours. It’s not even Jerry’s. The tickets you have been creating are out of line with our company’s brand–

I catch myself. What was I doing? Had I really become this cold? I’m a man, a company man even, but not a monster. Hell, I don’t even think the inflatable bear that has been possessed by the spirit of a crotchety old sportswriter is a monster.

Tubsy’s tone becomes pallid. “Please don’t make me leave, guy. I’m begging you.”

I look to Jerry, who shrugs once again.

Fine, I relent. You can continue to possess this machine under one condition: you get up to speed on the ins and outs of the modern NFL. Everything that’s happened since 1997. We owe a duty to our customers, and that is to provide the most in-depth–

The bear’s voice regains its previous grating, Chicagoan tone. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just tell me what I need to know.” The orb jolts out of the inflatable bear and the bear’s life-giving air seeping out, leaving it a wilted pile of fabric on the hardwood floor. Another beam of light, and Tubsy’s soul speeds back into the machine, slamming the front panel behind it.

Lock the door, Jerry. We’re gonna be here a while.

Jerry closes up shop and retires to his apartment upstairs. I pull the cashier’s stool up next to Tubsy, and I lay out all the basics about the modern NFL. Every Super Bowl champion since his death; the Manning, Brees, and Brady era; Brett Favre’s stints with the Jets and Vikings. Along the way, Tubsy peppers in his two cents, even if he has never heard or seen of most of the players I mention. A takesman to the bitter end, I suppose. I tell him of Mike Vick’s meteoric rise and fall, Tony Romo’s fumbled snap in 2006, and the Saints’ bountygate scandal, which Tubsy responds “all’s fair in love and football,” a phrase he tells me he coined during his third divorce.

I sit and explain the rise of the run-pass option in the league, and Tubsy is delighted to hear this, saying he was pining for Paul Johnson and his option offense to run the Bears in ’97. A surprisingly progressive opinion, I think to myself, from a man who is seemingly a mascot for the Good Ol’ Days.

I catch him up to now, the current season, the most pivotal knowledge in his new position of Hot Tix Creation Agent. Mahomes, Jackson, the Watts. Antonio Brown’s revival in Tampa Bay, where Tom Brady is now the quarterback. Dallas looks like they did when Tubsy ate the undercarriage of a Steinway.

We run a few mock tickets. Give me one for Kansas City. Tubsy spits out a ticket, which has our standard Hot Tix backdrop of a sold-out Arrowhead Stadium before kickoff. I grab it from what I suppose is now Tubsy’s mouth, and rub the foil off the card with the side of my key.

The ticket reads “Give Clyde Edwards-Helaire 30 carries a game, for God’s sake. Run the ball, control the clock. Control the clock, win the game.

I sigh. This is close, but doesn’t exactly

“It’s hot, though, isn’t it? Listen buddy, I’m almost never right. That’s not the business we’re in.” I can’t say I disagree. The hot take business is rarely about accuracy, but about who’s the loudest. And even in text, you can hear Tubsy through his tickets.

The lesson continues. The devaluation of the running back is covered, a topic that Tubsy is unsurprisingly shocked by. We go deeper. I explain the safety precautions the league has taken in the last decade. The concussion protocol, the blue tent on the sideline, the new targeting and roughing the passer penalties.

“The league’s soft now?”

If you want to call it that, yes. But it’s safer.

Tubsy the Talking NFL Hot Tix Machine lets out a mechanical sigh, the machine contracting and expanding with the soul’s deep breath.

“I always promised myself,” the six-foot-by-two-foot box of aluminum starts. “That if the league I love, the National Football League, became a soft babyshit league for pussies, I would take my Desert Eagle to my head and–boom. You can’t see it but I just pretended to shoot myself.”

Well, Tubs–you’re already dead.

“My body is dead. Tubsy Briggs, the writer, the dad, that guy’s dead. But I’m still very much alive, my soul. That little ball you see flying around. And I can’t let that soul live in a world where the NFL is run by a bunch of bitches.”

This, like the entire evening, is new. I’ve never had to talk anyone off a ledge before, and especially not the talking soul of the half-dead, and especially not one that has taken shelter inside one of my machines.

“It’s football. It’s not supposed to be safe. If you want to be safe, be an accountant. Go push pencils somewhere. I don’t wanna watch flag football.” Typically, a man of Tubsy’s mindset has come around to the new rules by now, but this is a man who has been at least one kind of dead since the Clinton administration. I try to let him talk through it.

“Big hits. That’s what I wanna see, baby. Mama, it’s gonna rain, bring the clothesline in!” This, he explains, was his signature call for big hits during radio broadcasts of local high school football games. “You’re telling me if my finger gets in the facemask of the QB, it’s fifteen yards?” Yes, it is. “Fuck that. Fuck all that. I can’t do this.” Tubsy’s voice gets low. “I made myself a promise.”

In this moment, I feel helpless. The soul of a man, maybe not a great man, but a man, wants to shuffle off our mortal coil, for once and for all. Sure, the circumstances are strange, and his reasoning stranger, but perhaps this is a man who has suffered enough. He was flattened by a piano, for God’s sake. And now his favorite league, his pride and joy, had gone soft. I relent.

“I never quite caught your name, but whoever you are, I appreciate you. But I gotta go.”

And like that, that familiar blue glow emanates from the machine, and out pops Tubsy’s soul. “Before I finally die forever, at least let me rest in peace knowing the Bears have a good quarterback.” Our lesson had been interrupted before I had a chance to go over this year’s Bears squad. I don’t want to go into the specifics of Justin Fields and the situation the Bears find themselves in, one of uninspired playcalling and poor playmakers surrounding their rookie signal caller. I spare him.

They do.

The orb floats through the locked front door of the store. I watch as it flutters above the city sidewalk, bobbing and weaving between passersby. Tubsy’s soul floats around aimlessly for a bit, enjoying its last few moments of life. Then, in a flash, his soul inhabits a nearby squirrel. Tubsy the Sidewalk Squirrel quickly darts in to the street.

A white Mercedes-Benz Metris, a nice one, but a few years older than mine, comes down the street. Odd Job John, Handyman at Service, the side door reads. Tubsy’s new form dashes in front of the van’s front tire. He disappears for a second, then a small puff of blue smoke appears. Rest easy, you old bastard.

Damn fine van to get killed by. Dashboard is all cluttered, though. Not mine.


MBG #1: MONEYBALL ARMAGEDDON

If it ain’t money, it ain’t ball.

The Moneyball Gangster

Ribbons of steam fly out of Robert’s mug, dissipating into the stagnant air of the barracks. The scullery is outfitted decently: a stove, an oven, a small two-sided sink, a microwave, and most importantly, a coffee maker. It’s Amazon-branded (as is everything else–it is the Amazon Nuclear Defense Force, after all) with a small carafe that holds about 6 mugs of Robert’s preferred high-octane dark roast. He doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, and didn’t even imbibe the Holy Bean before being moved here, but given the circumstances, he’s found it a necessity.

As a Lieutenant Sergeant in Amazon’s Nuclear Interception Strategy Force, Robert Staley’s world is one on the brink. Perpetually at unease, he finds solace in his morning java. The caffeine content may not slow the pace at which thoughts of armageddon arrive, but it keeps him Awake, Alert, and At The Ready; three of the four “A”s he learned during his training, the fourth of which being the name of a long South American river.

Robert’s job is simple. Get the Call, press the Button. Press the Button, save the World. Will the Prime Nuclear Interception Forcefield launch when he presses the button? Absolutely it will. Will it work as intended? That, he is unsure of. Surely, it was put through test upon test, and even at his advanced age of 77, Leader Bezos wouldn’t greenlight a system that didn’t work. Thankfully for him, he supposes, if it doesn’t work and the Allied Forces of Northrop-Lockheed plunge the world into Ragnarok, no one will be around to blame him for it.

He drops a single sugar cube into his Folgers Black Silk, stirs it around, and walks to the galley window. It’s snowing, as it often does here in Whittier, Alaska. Remote enough to remain hidden, close enough to Anchorage to provide a sense of societal connection. Robert liked Whittier well enough, though it was a far cry from Warner Robins, the rural Georgia suburb he called home before entering the Force. It’s much colder here, and there’s far less to do, although his assignment is quite literally to do nothing. He takes the first sip of his coffee, holding his mug in two hands, inhaling the vivication emitted from from the pool of black.

Lt. Sgt. Staley remains on Snowfall Lookout duty, his brain momentarily freed from its prison of anxiety. Shllhhhpp. Another sip. Out the window, the flakes fall to the now-barren ground around Nuclear Support Bunker #1, colloquially known as Denali, though the famous peak is a five-hour drive away. Denali’s acreage is quickly becoming a white-washed landscape, a serene Thomas Kincaid painting surrounding a brick-and-mortar embodiment of plutonic perturbation. Staley samples another dram of Folgers, and exhales deeply.

Doodadaloodadadoodaleedoo.

Oh shit.

Doodadaloodadadoodaleedoo.

Oh fuck.

Robert sets his mug down and swiftly heads from the kitchen to the bunker’s control center, a small room with The Phone, a computer, and The Button.

Doodadaloodadadoodaleedoo.

He had chosen the old default Cingular ringtone as the ringer for The Phone, the same one his late parents used on their first cell phones. It seemed darkly funny at the time, a bit of macabre humor in light of the Ultimate Solution, but he never expected to ever actually hear it.

Doodadaloodadadoodaleedoo.

He picks up.

“Staley, Denali,” he says, mustering up the courage he was trained to have. He stares at The Button, sitting on the desk, a red circle that now appears the size of a small planet.

“Staley. Johnson here, Washington,” the stern-sounding voice on the other end replies.

“Is it time, sir?” Staley asks, cutting to the chase, his eyes locked directly on The Button.

“Staley, did you know Robbie Ray is MLB’s all-time leader in strikeouts-per-nine?” Johnson says.

“Come again, sir?”

“Robbie Ray. Used to pitch for the Diamondbacks, I think? All-time leader in Ks per 9. Almost twelve! Can you believe it?”

For a moment, perhaps the first time since he moved to Alaska, Robert feels relief. He sighs with the power of twelve Amazon Green wind farms, three years of pent-up, nuclear anxiety exiting his body.

“So it isn’t time? No Button?” Staley asks.

“Oh. Oh God, no. Not for a few years, at least, if that.” Staley feels his face sink upon hearing that. “Shit. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that,” Johnson continues. “I just had to tell someone about that Robbie Ray thing. Insane, ain’t it? Guy wasn’t really all that memorable, until that one year. 2021. Won the Cy that year, I think. Crazy.” Johnson pauses a bit, expecting Robert to respond. Staley remains silent. “Anyways, have a good one, Lieutenant Sergeant. In Prime we trust.”

“In Prime we trust, sir,” Staley replies in turn. The line goes dead, and he returns the phone to the hook. Who the fuck is Robbie Ray? he thinks to himself. He feels his legs grow weak, becoming acutely aware of the vibration of his molecules. His sight fades, his field of vision slowly zooming in like the end of so many Looney Tunes episodes. The Lt. Sgt. begins to laugh maniacally, then his eyes erupt into a lachrymal cascade. Crying and cackling, he collapses to the floor of the control center.

“Who the fuck is Robbie Ray?” he asks himself aloud, eliciting a final gut-chuckle, before his eyes close, and he falls fast asleep.


Editor’s note: I don’t know if every blog will start with a short fiction, but I felt like writing this one. Oh, so you have to read a bit more. Oh, reading’s so hard. Grow up.

THE FIRST ANNUAL MBG MLB YEAR-END AWARDS

The MLB regular season is over. It’s true! They played all the games. Well, ten teams get to play more games, by virtue of playing in the playoffs. Big whoop. Real teams don’t “play in the playoffs”. Real teams hit Cameron Maybin third, make weirdly racist comments about opposing pitchers, and forget entirely the rules of the sport in which they are playing.

In the same vein, real players don’t win such frivolous awards as “MVPs” or “Cy Youngs”. Hell no. Real players play the MBG way. The right way. And for this, they should be rewarded. So, without further ado, we are proud to present to you the first annual MBG MLB year-end awards.

THE DENNY GREEN MEMORIAL “THEY ARE WHO WE THOUGHT THEY WERE” AWARD

KYLE GIBSON, SP, RANGERS/PHILLIES

Some time in 2019, while watching a Twins game at work, I posed a question to my coworker: What do you think Kyle Gibson’s career ERA is? I guessed a number in the mid-4s. I don’t remember the exact value, but upon a swift review of his Baseball-Reference page, I was right. To the hundredths place. Kyle Gibson of the Twins was the definition of “replacement level”. In his final season in Minnesota, he had a WAR of 0.0. Mediocrity personified. A 6’6″ Outback steak dinner with a sinker that sits in the low-90s. Who gives a shit.

Fast forward to June 2021, and Kyle Gibson, now of the Rangers, is suddenly one of the game’s best pitchers. He’s getting ground balls, missing a career-high amount of barrels, and added a cutter to his repertoire. He makes the first All-Star team of his career. His ERA is under 3 for the first time since the Obama administration. But, even the most amateur sommelier could tell you the pre-All Star 2021 vintage of Gibson had a bullshit backbone, with backing notes of horse piss.

The lanky bowl of milquetoast has two rough starts for Texas following the midsummer recess, allowing 10 earned across 11 frames, and gets traded to Philly at the deadline to Bolster Their Rotation for the Pennant Chase. How does he perform? Fine, but nowhere near All-Star level. His fielding-independent numbers suggest he was lucky in Texas, and unlucky in Philadelphia, as may be expected of a groundball-heavy sinkerballer (3.76 FIP to a 2.87 ERA in Texas, 4.04 to 5.09 in Philly). Nevertheless, post-trade Gibby regressed to the Jeff Suppan-ian, innings-eating nothing of a pitcher we had come to know and, well, know in Minnesota. Congrats on the award, Kyle! Welcome back to earth.

GUY I HATE AND IS ANNOYING AWARD

DANSBY SWANSON, SS, BRAVES

Fuck him. Prick.

WE SHOULD REPLACE OXYGEN WITH SWAG AWARD

THE CHICAGO WHITE SOX

Drip. Sauce. Swag. The Juice. Whatever you call it, they have it. Even while giving 219 plate appearances to the distinctly swag-less Adam Eaton, and despite the best efforts of DUI Patriot Tony La Russa to drag them back to the Stone Ages of the early 2000s, the White Sox were easily the coolest team in the Majors.

Jose Abreu is the one of the closest things we have on Earth to an actual superhero. Their two hulking mustangs, Eloy Jimenez and Luis Robert, patrol the outfield with a level of ice-cold panache not seen since the likes of the younger Ken Griffey. Catcher Yasmani Grandal provided one of the most efficient and effective hitting seasons by a backstop in the history of the game. The Sox are the only team that makes their shitty “City Connect” uniforms look good (please stop wearing the yellow, Boston). The Southsiders, with backing vocals from the Yankees, even managed to make the Field of Dreams Game, which should have been (and was trending in the direction of becoming) a complete cringe-fest, not only entertaining, but perhaps the crowning moment of the regular season. Unbuttoned jerseys, dookie chains, slick gloves, and bat flips. I’m all in.

I almost considered my New York Mets for this award, given their iced-out, all-smiles middle infield of Javy Baez and Francisco Lindor, with bonus points given for thumbs-downing all the mouth-breathing Long Islanders at Citi Field. Additionally, Pete Alonso is a dork, but a cool one that hits balls into the ocean, and Marcus Stroman has an innate level of bulldog-ish, duragged swag about him. But, the Mets stunk down the stretch, and employ Jeff McNeil and JD Davis, who are empirically uncool. No award for you. Go Sox.


COULD THE ANTI-VAX NBA STARS WIN AN NBA 3-ON-3 TOURNEY?

It’s a fair question. While Andrew Wiggins stuck to his philosophical guns for all of a week, Kyrie Irving, Bradley Beal, and Jonathan Isaac remain unjabbed. That’s a solid three-on-three team! Kyrie at the point, Beal at the wing, and Isaac defending whoever their opponent’s “big” is, and staying out of the way offensively. It could work, assuming you can retrieve Kyrie from the Elevated Realm of Consciousness. But would they win a leaguewide, halfcourt, make-it-take-it tournament to 21?

They have a good shot, methinks. As the Nets, Wizards, and Magic are Eastern Conference clubs, let’s start with taking them through the East. Given the halfcourt offensive gravity of Irving and Beal, I’ll grant the Jabless Three the fourth seed in the East. As the 4, they’ll play the #13 based on last year’s standings (adjusted -1 for the inclusion of the Jabless): the Raptors. Toronto’s current three best players are Pascal Siakam, Fred Van Vleet, and OG Anunoby. While Siakam may be able to out-athlete Isaac on a few possessions, the guards of the Raptors stand no chance against the dynamic duo of Irving and Beal. Jabless Three win, 21-14.

After eking out a close win over #12 Bulls, the #5 Knicks’ trio of Kemba Walker, RJ Barrett, and Julius Randle puts up a hard-nosed fight against the Jabless, led by rim-running attacks from Randle, who assumes a 3-on-3 role of “huge fucking point guard”. Perimeter shooting from Walker and Barrett keep the Knicks alive, but with the game tied at 17, Kyrie corrals a long rebound off a Walker stepback, and they don’t relent the ball after. 4 straight points by Beal, and the Jabless prevail. Jabless Three win, 21-18.

Onto the East semis, where the Jabless face their biggest challenge yet, the #1 Philadelphia 76ers. As he seems destined to never play in Philadelphia again, Ben Simmons will not be participating in the tournament. Philadelphia has ridden the muscle-rippled back of their frontcourt Leviathan, Joel Embiid, to this point in the tournament. With Tyrese Maxey’s quickness, and Tobias Harris’ mid-and-long-range proficiency, the Sixers rolled over #16 Detroit, then beat Boston in overtime, 24-21, following a game-icing two by Harris. While Embiid regularly bodies Jon “Follows Ben Shapiro on Twitter” Isaac in the post, the perimeter game once again elevates the Jabless over the opponent. Jabless Three win 21-17.

The Eastern Conference Finals. Kyrie, Beal, and Isaac against who? That’s right. Irving’s own handpicked Brooklyn teammates, Kevin Durant, James Harden, and Blake Griffin. Griffin was added to the Brooklyn squad after sharpshooter Joe Harris dropped out to attend the National Conference of Handsome Men. In a matchup between four of the best one-on-one players on the planet, we are surely in for a treat, correct? Bzzzt. Wrongo, brother.

Every miss for the Jabless brings a certain level of anxiety, as they may never get the ball back. Durant and Harden, solid halfcourt defenders and rebounders to boot, dominate and rarely miss. Griffin and Isaac become almost non-factors as the game becomes two-on-two between Durant, Harden, Irving, and Beal. The height, strength, and elite scoring abilities of Brooklyn’s two stars prove too much for the Unvaccinated All-Stars to overcome, and their run ends in the Eastern Conference Finals. Nets win 21-15.

So, no, in this hypothetical tournament I just ran in my brain, Isaac, Beal, and Irving could not win. Perhaps, if Andrew Wiggins hadn’t given into the hivemind-soy-beta mindset of making decisions that are beneficial to the public health of the world, they would have had a reliable third scoring option, and would have overcome the Nets’ offensive onslaught. They would have lost to the Lakers, anyways.


WEEK 4 NFL NOTEBOOK

  • Even as a Cowboys fan, I’m hesitant to crown Dallas as contenders just yet. Yes, they have shown they can hang around with four solid teams, beating three of them, and yes, Ezekiel Elliott looks like the star he’s meant to be. But, the defense so far has been predicated on Trevon Diggs’ Deion Sanders impersonation, and hasn’t fared all that well in the “don’t let the other team into the end zone” department. Consider me cautiously optimistic.
  • Please stop showing Steve Belichick on television. It’s scaring my cat.
  • How the Steelers beat the Bills in Week One is a complete mystery to me. The Bills look like they may be one of the best teams in the NFL, if not the best, even if their dominance has come against mainly bad QBs. Josh Allen is rolling, the run game is effective, and their defense leads the league in Expected Points Added per play (again, against backup quarterbacks). The Steelers, on the other hand, may have the worst offensive line in football, a QB who can’t move, and a defense that breaks more than it bends. While moving on from Mike Tomlin seems a bit far-fetched, upgrades at quarterback, the secondary, and offensive line will be needed in the Steel City.
  • The Eagles are cooked. They can’t stop anyone on defense, and while the fanbase is clamoring for a resurgence in the run game, when you step on the field down 14-0, it’s hard to say “it’s Miles Sanders time, baby”. If Derek Barnett and Fletcher Cox can regain their previous forms, the defense stands a chance to turn it around, but until further notice, it’s bald eagle soup in Philly.
  • Kliff Kingsbury should be sent to the Hague to answer for every carry that James Conner vultures from Chase Edmonds. In an exciting, motion-based, downfield offense, Edmonds’ speed and breakaway ability, evidenced by his ten yards a tote in their dominant victory over the Rams, make him a perfect fit for the Kyler Show. Conner was so ineffective in Pittsburgh the Steelers spent a first-round pick on a running back. “He gets tough yards.” Shut up, Grandpa. I’m sure Edmonds can too.

That’s the end of the column/newsletter/whatever this shit is for this week. Like I mentioned, I’m not sure if I’ll start every one with fiction, or if I’ll have more actual sports content to write about. Thank you for reading to this point. Be nice to yourself this week, drink a nice beer or nine, and I’ll see you next week. Same time, same place? Good, good.

MBG out.

Fuck. I’ll never type that again. Awful. I need to take a shower.

OPERATION MBG: RECON DISRUPTION ALPHA

I’m the Moneyball Gangster now.

The Moneyball Gangster

WELCOME TO MONEYBALL GANGSTER.

Moneyball Gangster (heretofore referred to as “MBG”) is a text-based sports infotainment and webucation project started by Ben Myers, @emptycanofpbr, of Living Room, Apartment (heretofore referred to as “me” or “I”). The goal of MBG is to provide an alternatively-skewed perspective on the world of professional and collegiate athletics, through a value-based, analytically-favoring lens. Also, to discuss which teams’ uniforms suck ass.

MBG will begin as a weekly newsletter, released on Tuesdays, covering the topics within the sports world I feel like talking about. Perhaps, MBG will also be a space where the worlds of sports and pop culture intersect (would be the first site to do so, I believe). Maybe a few friends will get jumped into the Moneyball Gang and offer their perspectives along the way. Nobody, least of all me, knows what will become of MBG, but the smart money is on “national sports network studded with talent in all forms of media that makes me so fucking rich it’s crazy”.

While MBG Media is obviously interested in expanding into other content spheres, we don’t have much equipment available to us at the moment (though we are looking very strongly into solidifying Brand Partnerships with global powers in a monetarily-beneficial sense), so you’ll have to deal with reading a bunch of words for now. I hope that’s okay. If it’s not, that’s fine, too. Colin Cowherd clips on Instagram Reels aren’t going anywhere.

But, if you want to stay up to date on the topics that really matter, such as which NBA contracts have the potential to be the funniest in two years, why having black uniforms when it’s not a team color sucks, or definitive rankings of unlicensed sports video games, you’ve drunkenly stumbled into the right place. Now, place this burlap sack over your head, don’t worry about why I’m turning the lights off, and inhale deeply. You’re now part of the Moneyball Gang.