Favre Makes Decision

You heard it here first. Brett Favre has agreed to come to terms with the Minnesota Vikings... under the condition that Vikings brass allow him to play this season not in standard NFL uniform, but in his trusty frayed Nike Golf hat, a sleeveless worn out purple t-shirt with a faded number 4 on the front, muddy Nike Shox with low-cut black socks, and an option for either khaki cargo pants or Wrangler bluejeans (depending on gametime temperature).

Vikings management has scrambled to set up meetings with NFL commissioner Roger Goodell and Reebok president Michael Samuels tomorrow to bargain for permission to have a player so egregiously out of uniform.

Favre has also expressly requested that the Vikings sign his hometown pal Gus McKeen, the guy who made that awesome catch diving into the mud in Favre's most recent Wranglers commercial. Favre feels the Vikings need to add a sure-handed possession receiver into the mix to be a true playoff contender, not to mention a guy who's willing to lay out and get a little dirty in less-than-ideal playing conditions.

Furthermore, Favre is negotiating for exclusive playcalling rights over Minnesota's offensive coordinator Darrell Bevell. Favre's offensive genius is demonstrated clearly in that Wrangers commercial... of course I'm referencing the fake-reverse, no look pitch that completely duped the opposing defense and resulted in a key conversion on 3rd and 4. Apparently, Favre just drew that play up in the huddle, he says he has tons more razzle dazzle drawn up after months of experimenting with daughters Brittany and Breleigh and laborador retreiver Cooper in the backyard.

Bastille Day

France may be excited about Bastille Day, but I'd like to stifle those smelly Frenchies' excitement and remind the entire globe that the U.S. > France on any day. (Thanks for the help in that Revolutionary War, though.) For your patriotic enjoyment: WATCH HERE

Mid-Season Awards

The All-Star break is upon us and that can only mean one thing... Deucedbrains' inaugural Billy Scripture Memorial Mid-Season Awards. Sportswriters from across the nation have sent in their ballots, and our interns have calculated the results. Drumroll please...


The Rollie Fingers Award for Achievement in Facial Hair Growth by a Relief Pitcher goes to Arizona Diamondbacks rookie Clay Zavada. The sensational face-salad clinging to Zavada's upper lip speaks for itself. Who wants a mustache ride?


The Steven Shepherd Trophy for Inscrutable Mound Activity goes to Mets' pitcher Mike Pelfrey for his dumbfounding three balks in a May 16th loss to the Giants televised nationally on ESPN.

The 1-Man, No Cup Prize for Astonishing Willingness to Share Fecal Matter is awarded to Phillies' outfielder Raoul Ibanez, who proffered his stool (along with his urine, hair and blood... hopefully not mixed) to a blogger who suggested Ibanez's recent explosion in offensive production may be attributable to performance enhancing drugs.

The Geriatric Award, sponsored by Rascal Scooter Co., Inc. goes to Phillies' quadragenarian Jamie Moyer for his impressive effectiveness as a starter despite his old age. MLB may want to research the potential performance enhancing characteristics of a combination of Avadart, Levitra, Celebrex, Just for Men and over-the-counter ulcer medication.


The Deucedbrains Plaque for Stifling Proficiency in Getting One's Brains Deuced Out is awarded to Oklahoma City RedHawks' first-baseman Chris Davis. Davis struck out an impressive 114 times in 258 big league at-bats for the Rangers before being demoted to the minors. He did bang out 15 home runs however, meaning he either struck out or left the yard in exactly 50% of his AB's this year.

The Orbitz Gum "Dirty Mouth" Award goes to White Sox third-baseman Gordon Beckham for this slide into second base against the Royals on 4th of July weekend.

The Jason Kidd, Sickest No-Look Dish of the Half-Year is awarded to JU alum Daniel Murphy of the Mets for this web gem which sadly predated his benching.


Oakland A's pitcher Josh Outman walks away with two prestigious "Deucies." One for Most Uncannily Suitable Surname (with a name like that, he was born to get outs) and the Hoboken Knitting Society's Prize for Outstanding Hosiery in appreciation for his leg garmenting. While I am not the biggest fan of the A's yellow sanitaries, I do value Outman's efforts to bring the 6-inch stirrup back in vogue.

Well that's all we have for now. Winners, your prizes should arrive via DHL in the coming weeks. We are always accepting suggestions for further awards and will provide forum for your recommendations. Thanks!

Sorry for the lack of content. Working hard to get some entertaining stuff to you. For now, follow us on Twitter (yes, it's come to that)... http://www.twitter.com/deucedbrains

Price vs. Moyer

I've pitched for the majority of my life, roughly 13 years, and I am still no closer to understanding this intricate art than the day I threw my first pitch. I've gone out on days when my right arm was probably more fit to be in a sling than hurling baseballs and shut decent hitters down, only to trot out full of confidence with my best stuff three days later and not make it through a full inning. I've snuck fastballs past professional prospects and given up 400 foot shots to 9-hole McLovin lookalikes... many times in the same game. I've been perplexed to the point of insanity watching games in which a 5'7, 160 pound kid in Rec Specs scatters six hits over nine innings against a solid top-to-bottom lineup, while the opposing team's 90 MPH-throwing ace gets chased his second time through the order.

The game I'm watching right now is a perfect example of this madness. Rays' phenom David Price has the best stuff he's shown all year. His fastball consistently comes in at 95 and his slider is sweeping about three feet. The Phillies' Jamie Moyer, his opponent, is 43 years old and has topped out tonight at 84, which even the commentators call a generous reading. Yet who was winning 10-1 in the 5th inning? Moyer, who keeps making Carl Crawford and Carlos Pena look like fools on inside changeups, a pitch a left-handed pitcher typically does not throw to lefty hitters. On the other side, Price is giving up monster bombs to Phillies 7-hole hitter John Mayberry, Jr. How does this sort of thing consistently occur in baseball?

Moyer certainly has the upper hand in pitching knowledge and experience on the 23 year-old Price. He has been pitching with efficiency on both sides of the plate, coming in effectively on hitters he should have no business throwing inside to with his lack of velocity. But by coming inside, Moyer changes the hitters' approach and their eye level and plants another seed in their minds. I've always thought pitching inside is like having an extra, 4th or 5th, pitch. Price has done a poor job with his pitch sequencing. He speeds up the Rays' bats with sliders after pumping fastballs by them. His 0-2/1-2 pitch selection has hurt him too. He offers up pitches that are too fat and catch too much of the plate, probably because he is looking for strikeouts. He has also failed to pitch inside, which would maximize his velocity. Many people stress keeping the ball down to prevent giving up hard hit balls, but many hits Price has given up have been on well-placed pitches.

Pitching is an extremely nuanced art that frequently defies logic. Moyer clearly has a better understanding of it than Price does at this point, certainly a better one than I ever approached... and perhaps that is why he is still pitching in his 40's and I am sitting at home at age 22 with a career ERA approaching double digits.

Insignificant Athlete in Focus: Robin Ventura

Robin Ventura was a three time All-American at Oklahoma State, a winner of the Golden Spikes award for the nation's top collegiate baseball player and an inductee into the College Baseball Hall of Fame. A highly touted amateur prospect, the Chicago White Sox made Ventura the tenth overall pick in the 1988 draft.

Ventura's first full Major League season came in 1990, a season in which he would commit 25 errors and log an abysmal two week long 0-41 slump. Ventura's fielding would eventually come around, he became a six time Gold Glove winner at third base, but his production at the plate would never reach the expectations that accompanied him into the league. Ventura batted a plebeian .267 lifetime, and hit 294 home runs throughout his sixteen year career with the White Sox, Mets, Yankees and Dodgers.

The apex of Ventura's career came in 1999, when he hit .301 with 120 RBI and 32 home runs in his first season with the New York Mets. It was in this year that Ventura beat the Atlanta Braves in game three of the NLCS with a walk off, bases loaded, over the fence single that would famously come to be called the "Grand Slam Single."

Ventura came to the plate with three men on in the bottom of the 15th inning with the game tied 3-3. He parked a Kevin McGlinchy offering and appeared to have hit a Grand Slam. However, his Mets teammates mobbed him before he could complete his trip around the bases, and the hit would be offically scored a one RBI single. The Braves eventually prevailed in the series, but Ventura's hit would go down as a truly unique moment in baseball history.

Ventura's respectable Major League career will unfortunately forever be trivialized in many sports fans' minds by the ass-kicking he took from a 46 year old Nolan Ryan in 1993.

Ventura was unfortunate enough to be caught by a quid pro quo retaliatory 96 mile-an-hour bean ball from Ryan, a response to White Sox pitcher Alex Fernandez's earlier plunking of the Rangers' Juan Gonzalez. Instead of accepting the HBP as an unavoidable swing in the game's pendulum of justice, Ventura charged the silver-haired flame thrower, only to be promptly subdued in a headlock and clobbered six times in the face before his teammates could come to his rescue.

Although he was 20 years Ventura's senior that night in Arlington, the Ryan Express handed the promising youth an embarrassing whooping that possibly stunted Ventura's development as a ballplayer and perhaps prevented him from fully realizing his widely-accepted potential.

Baseball Coaches and Uniforms: A Hackneyed Tradition

It’s something my girlfriend and mother mockingly have pointed out throughout my playing career, and for me, it’s a sensitive issue that cheapens and belittles the game of baseball: Why is it necessary that baseball coaches wear uniforms? Not a single other sport has a similar sartorial dilemma. Imagine Stan Van Gundy, George Karl or Don Nelson pacing the sidelines in the sleeveless tanktop and baggy shorts that comprise a basketball uniform. Disturbing? Likewise, picture puny egghead Bill Belichick in full pads; he’d make Stephen Gostkowski look like Ray Lewis. These examples are absurd to the point of humor, but are they all that different from the prospect that baseball coaches don their team’s full uniform?

The baseball uniform typically does not flatter bulgy, corpulent physiques. While Major League Baseball hardly stakes its reputation on the BMI of its players (see: Cecil Fielder, C.C. Sabbathia, Mike LaValliere and David Wells) fans should be pardoned from having to look at old saggy coaches whose bulging features are hardly concealed by tight fitting polyester. Not to mention the whole proposition is just plain pathetic. Are these guys attempting to recapture their playing days? The uniforms only serve to emphasize their complete lack of athleticism (see: Lasorda, Tommy, 2001 All Star Game).

Detroit Tigers manager Jim Leyland still wears spikes in the dugout. This is a guy who is famous for sneaking into the walkway between the locker room and the dugout during games to rip Camel Lights. I can hardly think of a worse slight to the game. Granted, Mickey Mantle and the greats of yesteryear were known to puff on cigarettes in the dugout, but baseball has long combated a reputation of being a sport for out-of-shape white guys. Throwing and hitting a good fastball are two of the most difficult tasks in all of athletics and yet the game still suffers from a lingering reputation that is certainly not helped by the spectacle of an unathletic manager moseying out to the mound in full uniform, belly bouncing over a belt buckled on the very last notch.

I can somewhat appreciate the tradition involved with Major League coaches wearing uniforms, a convention possibly hearkening back to the days of player-coaches. But why must disheveled, overweight coaches in the middle school and JV ranks continue to disgrace their dugouts? Take a page out of Terry Francona's book and wear a pullover instead of a numbered top. And are khaki pants really out of the question? Let’s be honest, the situation at hand could be much worse (thankfully, the Bike coaching shorts of the 1970s have phased out) but please, can we do away with this one ridiculous aspect of our nation’s pastime?