Mark Kreidler
In so many words.

You knew that, sooner or later, the Alex Rodriguez story would assume its full dimensions of ugliness.  And so it has come to pass: The latest cribbed info from SI reporter Selena Roberts’ upcoming A-Rod book lays out his behavior in sickening detail.

There’s just no way around it, Yankees fans: A-Rod only tips 15 percent at restaurants.

Oh, the steroid use?  Covered and covered.  Roberts’ book extends A-Rod’s roid infatuation back to high school, but at this point that certainly can’t be considered a surprise.  She also accuses Rodriguez of signaling upcoming pitches to opposing batters in the late stages of blowout games, allowing them to pad their batting averages in the hopes that they’ll return the favor down the road.  Not precisely breaking news in the game of baseball.

But A-Rod at only 15 percent?  That’s criminal, right?  As Charles Grodin told Robert DeNiro in Midnight Run, “These people depend on tips for a living!”  And at Hooters, A-Rod was known as the lousy 15 percent guy.  He comes off as absurdly cheap, cheap in a way that is disproportionate to his wealth.  (As opposed to absurdly low-rent, for being in Hooters in the first place.)

Not sure what the Hooters “servers” feel would be appropriate – do they really want a percent, or are they simply hoping A-Rod is as stupid with his money as most pro athletes and leaves a thousand-dollar tip for a few drinks and a lot of wiggle?  For that matter, if 15 percent is cheap, have we ascended to a point at which a 20 percent tip is considered the norm, for normal (i.e. perfectly ordinary) service?

Does a waiter get 15 percent for showing up to work that night, and 20 percent or more if he’s anything more than banal?  Most of us struggle with the tip amount most of the time.  If they’re changing the rules on me in the middle of a recession, I’m hosed.  I already over-tip for fear of looking cheap … to a total stranger.

Earth to server: I depend on money for a living, too.

No sympathy for A-Rod here, but killing a guy over a 15 percent tip?  Now you’re opening up a national conversation that we can all get into.

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Story link: http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2009/04/29/2009-04-29_arod_on_roids_for_years_new_book_claims_juiced_with_yanks__even_as_a_teen_source.html

Allow me to quote Joe Maloof about the search for the next head coach of the Sacramento Kings: “Whatever Geoff thinks.”

You sure about that, Joe?

Are you sure you mean that Geoff Petrie will actually be unshackled to do his job as GM?  Or do you only mean those words this week, in the first flush, before Petrie begins edging closer to choosing a head coach who isn’t on your personal list of “great guys” to whom you’d like to cut a check?

Given how obviously the Maloofs have wanted to see the franchise succeed over the years, it is all the more remarkable how often Joe, Gavin and the whole nutty crew have sabotaged the process.  They ran off Rick Adelman, their first and most original sin, for the apparent shortcoming of not being sociable enough.  (I’m not exaggerating: Joe Maloof told me at one point that he wanted a coach who would win those games on the court and then be a constant presence in the community.  How’s that workin’ out for ya?)

They overruled Petrie’s instincts to choose Eric Musselman, who wowed the family at his interview with a PowerPoint presentation and personally embossed leather folders for each Maloof.  They overruled Petrie to select Reggie Theus, who’d buddied up to them while coaching at New Mexico State.  (No such judgment on Kenny Natt, a decent guy who was asked to warm the seat this season after Theus went poof.)

They made loud noises about their cherished close friend John Whisenant, former coach of the WNBA’s Monarchs.  After all, Whiz is trusted by Joe and Gavin.  In a word: wow.

While other people wonder whether Petrie should be kept around, I’m constantly amazed that he hasn’t blown town by now.  The Kings only got Petrie in the first place, remember, because Portland owner Paul Allen meddled in Petrie’s business there and mucked up the front office to the point that he became frustrated and left.  The ensuing years showed just what magnitude of mistake that was, as Allen’s guys trashed the Blazers and Petrie built a powerhouse at Arco Arena.

Now Joe Maloof says Petrie will be free to hire the coach he wants – subject to ownership review, of course.  As Petrie begins fleshing out a candidate list that is sure to be long on proven NBA track record, short on glitz and likely not cheap, we’ll see whether the Maloofs mean what their franchise-owning son is saying.

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There’s a great unintentional understatement about John Madden in the Associated Press story announcing Madden’s retirement from broadcasting today – kind of funny, considering that “Madden” and “understatement” almost never go together.

But at one point, the story intones, “Madden is reluctant to fly, and often traveled to games in a specially equipped bus.”

Well, no, not really.  The truth: Madden is a Class A claustrophobic who absolutely refuses to fly, hasn’t flown in a plane in 30 years, and for decades has always traveled to games in a specially equipped bus.  And he’ll tell anybody who asks.

It may sound nit-picky, but it’s worth noting.  Madden’s complete acceptance of who he was, and his willingness to share that with anyone and everyone, is one reason he ultimately became so beloved as a broadcaster.  Madden was, above all, himself – and never more human than when discussing his refusal to get on a plane.

He never shied from describing the events of 1979, when, after a decade of white-knuckle flights as the Raiders’ head coach, he suffered what he described as his “third full-blown panic attack” while on a trip during his first year as a broadcaster.  He swore that if he got through that flight in one piece, he’d never get on another plane in his life.  He has kept that vow.

Some trace Madden’s visceral reaction to a terrible airplane accident in 1960 that took the lives of several Cal Poly San Luis Obispo football players and staff members.  It was a flight that Madden, a Cal Poly graduate assistant at the time, was initially supposed to be on.  Instead, he stayed behind to coach a JV game.

Whatever its emotional roots, Madden never made a secret of his claustrophobia when it came to airplanes (and anyone who similarly saw his reluctance at entering an elevator can believe it).  He spoke openly.  He didn’t let it prevent him from having an incredible second career, but he also didn’t sugar-coat his own fears – and that openness was consistent with the way Madden came across in the broadcast booth.  For better or worse, he always sounded like who he was, and people were drawn to it – charmed by it, mostly – for 30 years.

Story link: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2009/04/16/sports/s075301D99.DTL

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Wait a minute, wait a minute.  When Dustin Pedroia calls his hometown “a dump,” what he’s really saying is, They hurt my family.  Let’s get our controlled rages clear.

Pedroia grew up in Woodland, a town near Sacramento that basically has done nothing to Dustin other than raise him, nurture him, celebrate him and now wistfully join in his big-league success with the Boston Red Sox.  Whatever you make of the place itself – and, look, it’s no Garden of Eden – it doesn’t have to explain itself one iota.

But Woodland is also the place where, in late January, news broke that Pedroia’s older brother Brett was arrested on charges of oral copulation and lewd acts with a child under the age of 14.  The arrest stemmed from incidents that are alleged to have happened four years ago and which came to light only recently, when the purported victim is said to have told his parents what happened.

Now, put this all together: Pedroia’s brother is charged in January.  The family is thrown into complete turmoil, including the emotional whiplash of going from Dustin’s MVP award to Brett’s arrest in the matter of a couple of months.

Enter reporter.

For the Boston Magazine piece in which Pedroia is quoted ripping Woodland at length (“Everyone wants to get out of there.  What do you want to stay in Woodland for?  The place sucks”), the player was interviewed at the Red Sox spring training complex in Florida.  That interview, based upon the timing set forth in the story itself, was conducted in mid-February.

In other words, Pedroia is being asked about his hometown a scant few weeks after his brother’s arrest went public, as his parents – longtime Woodland residents, supporters and business owners – deal with the shame and humiliation of seeing their family’s name besmirched in a small town.

Get the picture?  Woodland never did a thing to Dustin Pedroia other than be glad he was there and, maybe, brag on itself a little bit when he made it big.  His words are directed at the arrest of his brother, at the embarrassment at his brother’s situation and the ugliness of the charges.  Totally understandable … but take it for what it is.

Story link: http://www.bostonmagazine.com/scripts/print/article.php?asset_idx=246880

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At this point, the pressure is on the Sacramento Kings to be perfect.  They simply can’t afford an unexpected win.  Time to play all the kids, all the time.  Time to sit down the wounded Kevin Martin, and tell him not to get back up.  Don’t even think about a fourth-quarter comeback in a close game.  Lay low and stay there.

It’s all about having the most balls.  You understand.

It was impossible to watch the Oklahoma-North Carolina game in the NCAA tournament and not recognize that, while Tyler Hansbrough was a great college player, OU’s Blake Griffin is a pro star who happens to be wearing a college uniform.  The coming NBA draft will fix that particular wardrobe malfunction, and with just a touch of good fortune – just a few more balls, really – he could be the Kings’ player to dress.

Here’s how it goes: If the Kings, who are dead last in the standings right now, finish with the NBA’s worst record, they are assigned 250 of the 1,000 available ping-pong balls in the draft lottery.  The team with the second-worst record – at this point, it’s Washington – gets 199 balls, the third-worst gets 138, and fourth-worst gets 137.

So the difference between last and next-to-last is the difference between having a 25 percent chance of getting the No. 1 pick in the draft (that would be Griffin) and having a 19.9 percent chance.  It doesn’t ensure anything, of course – this isn’t the NFL, where the worst team automatically gets the top pick – but it sure can’t hurt.

I’ve seen plenty of pro-ready players, and so has anyone who follows the college game from one year to the next.  They’re usually so obvious that it’s impossible to miss – and Griffin is absolutely, positively one of those.  He’s as close to a no-risk pick as any big man in the college game can be.  When Portland looked at Greg Oden a couple of years back, the Blazers had to realize they were getting a huge guy with a limited offensive game, the ability to block and alter shots, and some promise – but not a classic full-court athlete.  Griffin is brilliant at both ends of the floor, and most of the space between.  He’s that good.

The word around campus right now is that you’d almost rather be Hansbrough, a rightfully highly-regarded forward who nevertheless just isn’t athletic enough to merit a high pick in the NBA lottery.  Because of that, Hansbrough is likely to wind up with a team that’s already pretty good and thus is choosing toward the bottom half of the first round.  It’s a weird way to try to give Hansbrough his due, but sure.  Fine.  Whatever.

Blake Griffin, on the other hand, is going to be drafted by a team that can’t wait for him to yank on a uniform and start contributing.  And it says here that he will run – run – to the airport in order to get started turning a chump club into a projected contender.  He works that hard.  He carries that much passion.  He could be that kind of a leader.

Kings: Do your part to draft this man.  Lose out.  Nobody cares whether it’s 18-64 or 16-66; your fans went numb somewhere around the 50-loss mark.  Your coach is gone either way.  No jury in the world would convict.  Just be perfect from here on.  You’ll thank yourselves for it someday.

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The news that the Seattle Mariners are placing Ichiro on the disabled list because of a bleeding ulcer put me in mind of something the great Japanese hitting star said recently about his stress level, even though there’s staggeringly little chance the events are related.

After all, the whole idea of stress inducing ulcers has long been discredited.  For that matter, researchers aren’t sure that stress even significantly worsens an ulcer.  Ulcers are primarily caused by three things: infection; certain types of medicine; and other medical issues that cause the release of too much stomach juice (highly scientific terms mine).

Stress may or may not be a contributing factor.  That’s about as far as researchers have gotten.

But reading the news (and, being old school, still associating ulcers with stress) reminded me of Ichiro’s words after the World Baseball Classic, in which he delivered that incredible at-bat in the championship game – the at-bat of the WBC, really – to basically win it for Japan over South Korea in the 10^th inning.

Though he’s the picture of stoicism at the plate and on the bases, Ichiro confessed that during that huge at-bat – two men on, two out, two strikes – his mind was all over the place.  He tried to focus, but it simply wasn’t there.  The moment was so big that it overwhelmed him.

“I really wish I could be in a state of Zen,” Ichiro said.  “I kept thinking of all the things I shouldn’t think about.  Usually, I cannot hit when I think of all those things.  This time, I got a hit.  Maybe I surpassed myself.”

Beautiful: The man widely regarded as the best in the world at what he does gets rattled just like any other person who comes into a critical situation, needing to perform brilliantly to make things work out.  That’s as human a statement as Ichiro has ever uttered – and it ought to give heart to every kid who ever swung and missed because his idiot dad was standing behind the backstop at the Little League complex, bellowing instructions in between pitches.

Guess what?  Even the great ones struggle, and they struggle on long after their greatness has been globally certified.  You’re not done yet, kid.  Just move dad to the outfield bleachers, and let’s get on with your great game.  No ulcers allowed.

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