Shallow | Center

Gorgeous George

The Patriots Topple College Basketball's Best Team and Head to the Final Four

MY POOL had already been blown to hell by the time I tuned in midway through the second half of the Washington regional final between Connecticut and George Mason. So when I discovered the Patriots up by a couple, I had no problem rooting for them, even though the Huskies were the team I picked to win the national championship. And damned if GMU didn't gut out a two-point victory in overtime. If you don't follow college hoops all that closely, it's hard to describe the disparity in talent between the game's elite squads and those that are merely good. That's what makes the Patriots' win over UConn -- and their appearance next weekend in the Final Four -- so stunning. Imagine the Devil Rays winning the American League pennant this season and you'll begin to understand. Congrats to George Mason, and a big thank-you, for giving sports fans a new reason to believe in miracles.

Wildcat Wonderings

Can I Root for Villanova in Good Conscience?

VILLANOVA'S GRITTY VICTORY over Boston College in Minneapolis last night leaves me and many other Saint Joseph's fans in a hell of a bind. The Wildcats' terrific season is a wonderful reflection on the Big Five, and tradition calls for the Philadelphia schools to pull for one another when they're playing other teams. And as much as I rack my brain, I can't come up with a reason to dislike 'Nova head coach Jay Wright, an engaging, cheery fellow who's expertly shepherded his squad through good times and bad. On the other hand, it's Villanova -- home of spoiled rich kids and uppity, well-heeled alumni. It's Villanova -- the one school that loves nothing more than to look down its collective noses at my school, when it even bother to pay attention to us at all. It's Villanova -- which has now equaled Saint Joseph's Elite Eight appearance of 2004, and now threatens to surpass that performance, a prospect that has me selfishly worried. What's a Hawk to do?

'Alternative' Viewpoints

City Paper Plants the Kiss of Death on the Phillies

THE COVER of this week's issue of City Paper blares, "Are the Phillies Beyond Repair?" Inside are standard-issue interviews with Ryan Howard and Mike Schmidt, a guide to the season's better games to target for tickets, a sidebar reporting that 36 of 60 people polled in Center City "just don't care" about the Phils, and a point-counterpoint on the state of the team between an editor, Brian Howard, and George Armistead, described as "a friend of CP photographer Michael T. Regan." It's not exactly cutting-edge commentary, but that's rather beside the point. Of far greater concern if you're a baseball fan is that City Paper and its sister alt-pub Philadelphia Weekly sneer with undisguised disdain at anything even approaching the mainstream. If it's even mildly popular, they think it's not worth watching/reading/eating/drinking/attending. More, they think you're a naive tool of The Man if you happen to like some of that stuff. The Phillies' presence not just in the paper but on the cover is as clear a signal as you can find that the national pastime's popularity is plummeting down into abysmal territory in Philadelphia. Think Arena Football. Think indoor lacrosse. Think women's tennis.

March Forward

Life, the Universe, and Everything Sometimes Get in the Way

TWO MONTHS AGO I rededicated myself to more regular posting, and then, whaddya know, I just went about 10 days between posts. A couple of freelance assignments really crushed me, and life has thrown me some curveballs in recent months, and before I knew it it got harder and harder to jump back in front of the keyboard. And then I started worrying that the longer I went, the more readers I'd lose and the more useless it would be to start up again. I'd like to hear from some other bloggers whether this ever happens to them. This whole thing is supposed to be a labor of love; the instant it feels like obligation is when it's time to stop, right? And yet having done it for almost three years, I've come to really enjoy expressing myself in ways that my professional life just can't allow these days. I've also made some good friends through blogging, and the chance to engage in a conversation with some really smart, funny people about subjects that I'm terribly interested in has been quite rewarding. I guess what I'm saying is, bear with me. I know I need to get my rhythm back, but I'm committing myself here and now to making it happen. I hope. Help me out here, friends: How do you stay fresh?

Grilled, Please

The First Schmitter Since Last Season Rekindles the Desire for Opening Day

THE RUSSIAN DRESSING combined with the melted cheese and dripped down my fingers in a way that just doesn't happen at Citizens Bank Park. Schmitters at the ballpark are delicious, but lunch today was at McNally's Tavern, the sandwich's home, and the experience was transcendent. Piping hot and crafted with love, unlike the good-but-lukewarm sammies slapped together by the high school kids at CBP, my Schmitter this afternoon did more to get me in the mood for baseball season than the World Baseball Classic, Barry Bonds's steroid problem, and the Phillies' suspect starting rotation combined. Is it Opening Day yet?

You've Got Mail

What Brings Joy on a Mid-March Day? 'Tis the Season Tickets

IT WAS IN the upper 70s in Philadelphia today, a day to drive with the windows down, envision that first Rita's water ice of the year, and imagine Harry Kalas calling a Chase Utley homer on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Coincidentally, when I arrived home I found a package from the Phillies' ticket office on the table in the foyer. There they were, the ducats for the 17-game plan I have -- a tangible and unmistakable signal that spring is on the way. It's going to turn cold again later this week, but those tickets aren't going anywhere. They'll stick around until each day's game, a reminder that the long winter is much more behind us than in front of us.

gr Unplugged

A Phlogger's Alter Ego Makes a Public Appearance

From former blogger and current Shallow Center brother Chris:

From his contributions to Shallow Center's comments section, readers know the mysteriously initialed GR as a fellow phan and a phlogger in his own right, not to mention an afficianado of Kristin Bell. But in Washington, DC, last night, in a cozy bar on funked-up U Street, GR added another phacet -- uh, facet -- to his persona: singer-songerwriter. And not a bad one. He performed a 45-minute acoustic set of his own material, which leans toward wry lyrics and sturdy hooks, buttressed by amusingly self-amused between-songs banter. Not that you have to take my word for it. GR has posted two of his songs online. Give 'em a listen. Can a cover of Terry Cashman's  "Baseball and the Phils" be far behind?

Hoop, There It Is

With the Big Dance Looming, Would-Be Cinderellas the Nation Over Start Trying on Slippers

IF THE PROSPECT of reading another story about Barry Bonds's rear end, and what he injected into it, makes you want to swear off sports forever, allow me to suggest you tune in to the various NCAA Division I men's basketball conference tournaments that are taking place this week. Not the behemoths like the ACC or Big East -- the amount of money involved there renders that game virtually pro anyway. No, check out the smaller conferences -- the Patriot League, for example, whose final will be tomorrow at 4:30. These players will never make it to the NBA, and almost certainly (but not always) will be cannon fodder for whomever they face in the first round of the NCAA Tournament. They play because they love the game, and when they win, they don't strut the sidelines and wait for the cameras to catch them in mid-scowl. They hug, they cry, they thank their coaches, and they get ready for the best week of their young lives. It's a refreshingly uncynical display, and it's enough to restore your faith in sports.

Oscar the Ouch

Too Bad Jon Stewart's Audience Couldn't Laugh at Themselves the Way We Could

WATCHING THE ACADEMY AWARDS broadcast when you've seen none of the major nominees is a bit of a frustrating and useless exercise, but as a fan of both Jon Stewart and attractive women in tight, revealing dresses, I was willing to give it a go. The actresses did not disappoint, led by the luminous and completely smoking hot Felicity Huffman, who blew away women half her age. As for Stewart, I thought he was really, really good, but the audience just didn't seem to get him, and the resulting lack of chemistry in the room gave rise to a flat performance. The Bjork-Dick Cheney joke, which has me choking with laughter on the slice of pizza I was eating, would have elicited a well-deserved standing ovation in The Daily Show's New York Studio; in an L.A. theater filled with preening, self-important celebs, it received some polite chuckles, then was promptly forgotten. David Hiltbrand's piece in today's Inquirer nails it, I think; while Billy Crystal at Oscars past accompanied his shtick with a comforting pat on the back, Stewart slapped around his audience while also slipping a shiv between its ribs. In this case, to get the joke, maybe you had to not be there.

Speed Racer

An Anonymous Phillie Comes Clean

THE INQUIRER goes large today -- banner headline, above the fold -- with Jim Salisbury's report of an anonymous Phillie confessing that he took speed every day for the last several years. With MLB finally getting tough on steroid use, players will now be tested for amphetamines as well, and so the Phil with whom Salisbury speaks says his pill-popping days are over. The column quotes the player as stating: "I'm sure people will say, 'He did that!' But they don't understand. Baseball is every day. Let's see them keep up with this schedule." To which one can only reply, give me a break. The vast majority of the ticket-buying, game-watching, licensed-merchandise-purchasing public that pays this guy's salary goes to work every day -- without a six-month break, mind you -- for a yearly sum of money that doesn't come near the seven and eight figures most ballplayers earn. And we do it without any more chemical enhancement that a cold beer or a glass of shiraz.