Lights, Camera, Action...But Where's Chauncey??

It remains one of the most puzzling box score lines in NBA history.

It was 2005, and the Pistons were entering a Game 7 showdown with the San Antonio Spurs. This was for everything.

The Pistons win, and they secure their second straight championship, placing them among the immortals in NBA lore.

Lose, and it's another could-be title slipping through their fingers in a pseudo-dynasty that has come to be defined by them.

Handling the ball at the point that night was the same guy that did it for so many years. Chauncey Billups. He'd been named Finals MVP just one year ago when he spearheaded the Pistons' effort in completely dismantling the Lakers.

In this series against the Spurs, Chauncey was running hot and cold, but there was one thing you could count on. He'd want the ball when it mattered most. If he went down, he was going down swinging.

In the Game 5 heartbreaker at the Palace, Big Shot hoisted 26 times.

In the must-win affair in Game 6, he remained aggressive, putting up 16 shots, and drilling 5 of 9 from downtown.

The Pistons couldn't win without him having a great night, and he knew it.

There was a reason they called him Mr. Big Shot. While other players tensed up as the stakes got larger, Chauncey was always one to embrace that moment.

Which is what makes that Game 7 box score so hard to understand.

In a night that would boggle the minds of Pistons fans for years to come, Chauncey logged 40 minutes of court time and shot a lifeless 3 of 8 from the floor. He attempted just three of his signature attempts from long range, making none. Defensive specialist Lindsey Hunter took just as many shots as Billups in half the minutes. It was Un-Chauncey like in every sense of the word.

The lights were brightest, the stage was set, and the man that supposedly lived for moments just like this simply retreated to the background and let the other players decide his team's fate.

He was supposed to devour that kind of situation. Instead, he was paralyzed by it.

I didn't recognize the man wearing the "Pistons 1" that night. And on Wednesday in Los Angeles, with the Western Conference championship hanging in the balance, that shadowy figure emerged again.

And exited without so much as a peep.

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In a best of seven series, there is no more pivotal point than Game 5 of a deadlocked affair.

The road team, in this case the Nuggets, knew in their hearts that they had to steal this one and finish things off at home. You aren't going into Kobe's house, with Kobe's referees, and winning Game 7.

Will not happen.

Which is why everyone knew that this game meant everything.

Early on, it looked like Chauncey Billups was well aware of these circumstances. He came out firing.

On Denver's first possession, he found himself being blanketed by Derek Fisher. Didn't matter.

This is his time. Elevate and release. Nothing but net from 26 feet.

Just one minute later, Chauncey was attacking again. All the way to the rim for a layup in traffic.

He was feeling good. You got the sense it might be one of those special Chauncey nights.

Like the time the Pistons ventured to Orlando, trailing 3-2, praying they would avoid the ignominy that comes with being knocked out in the first round as the conference's top seed. Wasn't gonna happen; not on Chauncey's watch, anyway. He exploded for 40 that night. The Pistons cruised.

And while he had nights during that regular season where he knocked down game-winners in the closing seconds, it was that unforgettable playoff performance that truly cemented him as Mr. Big Shot.

As the first quarter carried on in LA, Chauncey continued his assault. Another bomb from the arc and a technical free throw to cap things off. Nine points in the opening frame.

He seemed to be on his way to a huge night. Maybe another 40-spot like that memorable assault on the Magic.

Or so we thought...

The game ambled along, with neither team able to jump out too far ahead. It was a choppy affair, as if both teams knew the importance of the situation, but were unsure of how to take control of it.

It was just the kind of night that Chauncey had come to be known for.

He'd think, "Let all these other punks short-arm their jumpers and commit careless turnovers...I aint' phased by it."

Only on this night, he was.

The game continued on, close throughout, and you kept waiting for him to turn it on.

Never happened.

In the 3rd, he forced the issue and made consecutive turnovers. When did Chauncey do that?

He'd try to play off the ball, letting Anthony Carter or J.R. Smith bring it up. But he'd just spend the 24 seconds camped out in a corner, more spectator than participant.

There were even occasions when the ball would be rotated to him for a wide open three-ball, and he would make an extra pass.

He is the extra pass.

You swing the ball madly around the arc so he can shoot. Not so he can catch the ball, look around, and dish to an unsuspecting Linas Kleiza.

And most concerning of all, the majority of Chauncey's offensive sets down the stretch went something like this: bring the ball up the floor, pick up dribble 35 feet from the rim, give it up to Carmelo Anthony, and then watch.

During the game, I found myself admonishing Carmelo for his ill-advised drives to the hoop and suspect shot selection. But then I realized: at least he's doing something.

Chauncey was there...but not really there. Which takes us back to that puzzling night from four years ago.

The Pistons and Spurs headed into that final quarter all tied up at 57. (Nobody said it was the prettiest series in league history.)

Even though Chauncey had been quiet to that point, you couldn't imagine him staying that way with the Larry O'Brien trophy now close enough to touch.

But he did.

Nine minutes flew by in the quarter. The Spurs carefully built a six point advantage. Chauncey finally took a shot, a layup that dropped in. But it was too late. Tim Duncan and Co. had another banner to raise.

It's a funny feeling in sports.

You're watching something occur, a live event completely unique to itself. But you can't fight the feeling that you've seen the exact same scene play out before.

That was Game 5 last night.

The Lakers and Nuggets headed to the 4th quarter all knotted up, a Finals appearance likely going to the winner, and just as he did on June 23rd, 2005, Chauncey went dark.

Two shot attempts, one at the beginning, one at the end, neither successful. He was taking a pass on this one.

Shannon Brown hounded him and drew high praise from the ESPN crew. And sure, he did a nice job, but still...this was supposed to be Mr. Big Shot.

This was the guy that labored through the rigorous 82-game schedule just so he could wind up at the center of this kind of series-altering 4th quarter. But this time it came and went, and Chauncey was nowhere to be found. His final line is something that would make Einstein do a double take and say, "Wait, I can't figure this one out."

39 Minutes, 4-7 shooting (3-6 on 3s), for 12 points.

Seven shots?? From Chauncey Billups? In the season's most important game?

Carmelo heaved 23. Even Kenyon Martin jacked up 15. J.R. Smith put up 10 from three point land alone. But defying explanation, after a 3 of 3 start in the game's opening frame, Chauncey would take just four shots in the final 36 minutes.

When Chauncey's first few shot attempts nestled softly through the net, you could tell that his stroke was there. But somehow, his intensity was absent.

Where was the guy that put this team on his back all year after the Iverson trade and changed the whole culture of the Nuggets' franchise?

Where was the guy that sliced and diced the NBA's best point guard, Chris Paul, in round one?

Where was the Chauncey from 2003, when his Piston team traveled to Orlando for a must-have game, and he let the ultimate fate rest in his hands?

Chauncey wouldn't have had it any other way that night.

Either he was gonna lead them to victory, or they were going home. He was not okay with riding shotgun and letting his season come to an end on someone else's account.

In Game 5 against the Lakers, that Chauncey was merely a memory. He simply stood off to the side and watched as his team dropped the game that they so desperately needed.

The Nuggets needed Mr. Big Shot Wednesday night.

Unfortunately, he never arrived.

And now they will most likely spend a long summer trying to figure out where he went...


Drop a comment below, or send me your thoughts at highsockslegend@gmail.com

Yet Unnamed Memorial Day Weekend Sports Re-Kap

After a ho-hum first month and a half of the season, the Tigers came home for a 9-game home stand and promptly caught fire. And it's due in no small part to the excellent starting pitching that has been rounding into form over the last few weeks. Justin Verlander has reverted back to his 2006-07 form and is practically a lock to give you seven or eight tremendous innings every time out. Edwin Jackson has been nearly as good, making the off-season deal for Matt Joyce look like one of Dave Dombrowski's best moves in some time. Rick Porcello has made an immediate impact, perhaps sooner than anyone expected. Sure, Armando Galarraga looks like a lock for the Toledo Mud Hens rotation in 2010, but no staff is perfect. During the Tigers' recent streak of seven straight wins, only once did they allow more than three runs. You would be hard pressed to find another team in all of baseball that boasts a trio of power arms in the rotation like those of Verlander, Jackson, and Porcello.

And with the rest of the division scuffling mightily, now might be the time for the Tigers to ratchet up the intensity and try to pull away from the pack at this early juncture. Put up another 7 and 3 stretch over the next ten, and you might be looking at a double digit lead over the next closest squad in the Central. Who are you supposed to be scared of? The Royals? It's only a matter of time before people realize that their staff consists of Zach Greinke and a whole bunch of rice pilaf. If they think the baseball gods are going to allow them to pitch Sidney Ponson every fifth day and go to the playoffs, they are in for a rude awakening.

The Twins are always a factor in this division, but they're just too reliant on their gimmicky home stadium to be considered a real threat right now. Not to mention the fact that Francisco Liriano is probably no longer a legitimate big-league pitcher and the franchise seemingly won't admit it until the man is walking the streets of Minneapolis toting an ERA in the low teens.

The South Siders still have the rock solid Mark Buehrle, but what's with their attempt to revive the corpse of "The Hispanic Ponson," Bartolo Colon? When you're an aging pitcher with marginal stuff and you used to rely on being overpowering, and your waistline is increasing with every post-game chili dog, it's probably a good idea to hang up the spikes. Or put down the fork. One or the other.

As for the Tribe, when your best hurler is Carl Pavano, that pretty much puts you out of consideration for the division crown. Cliff Lee is looking mortal again after an inexplicable Cy Young campaign last season, while Fausto Carmona's 19-8 ledger in '07 seems like a similar statistical aberration for an otherwise erratic pitcher.

All in all, the postseason prospects for the boys sporting the Olde English D are looking mighty fine, albeit at this still early juncture. Bats may run hot and cold from time to time, but when a team is able to secure consistent performances from their starting pitchers 5-6 times a week, that usually leads to baseball in October.



The Designated Hitter rule in the American League states that a team is allowed to place one player in the batting order only to hit, not to play the field, but that this player can only be used in place of the pitcher. The reason I bring this up is that the Tigers have a serious issue on their hands whenever Gerald Laird needs a day off. Dane Sardinha is the backup catcher for the Tigers, and league rules state that if he sets up shop behind the dish, he must also occupy a slot in the batting order. This is a problem for one main reason: Sardinha cannot hit. And I'm not just talking the "Oh, he'll hit ya 12 homers and bat .235" kind of range. This guy is capable of doing things that position players have only had nightmares about before. The Big Sardine is hitting a robust .095, and that's only after a stunning RBI single over the weekend allowed him to vacate the sickly .053 he'd been lugging around prior. Not to say that a backup catcher is an all-important ingredient in becoming a pennant winner, but can you really continue to employ any major league position player that not only fails to hit his weight, but also that of post hunger-strike Gandhi? When Sardinha is in the lineup, Jim Leyland is forced to treat him like a National League pitcher. With a man on 1st and nobody out, he's bunting. No questions asked. But oddly, in the same spot but with one down, Leyland will allow Dane to swing away. Most NL skippers still have their pitcher lay one down in this spot. Shouldn't Leyland be doing the same? After all, this guy has not shown the ability to out-hit most pitchers and thus should be treated accordingly.

The backup catcher spot has been one quietly gnawing at the Tigers for the last few years, but this is a new low. Vance Wilson was superb in the World Series run a few years back, but that was followed by Tommy John surgery and several dozen "setbacks" in his recovery that made you wonder if his body was actually being possessed by Dean Palmer. Mike Rabelo was next on the job, and it's just a shame we never got to see what he could actually do if given a full season of at-bats. I really think he could have racked up 300 strikeouts. Now we'll never know. So it's Sardinha's post for the time being. He'll strap on the shin guards once a week and do all he can to call a solid game for his starting pitcher. Then he'll stride to the plate 3-4 times and pray to God that he will be able to make contact on just one of his swings. If not, maybe we can write to Bud Selig and see if he can amend the DH rule. After all, why does it always have to be the pitcher you replace in the order? Sometimes a catcher can be just as bad. And we've got the sub-.100 average to prove it.



Talk all you want about Andrew Bynum and his "being the key to the Lakers winning the title." Talk about Pau Gasol and his "soft play." Talk about Kobe and his unending selfishness on the offensive end. I got news for you. The guy holding the key to the Lakers championship run is the consistently inconsistent Lamar Odom. What has happened to this guy? Forever immensely talented, he finally seemed to be coming into his own during last season's run to the NBA Finals. While Gasol was a huge boost to the Lakers' frontline, it was Odom's ability to finally tap into his unlimited potential that pushed the team to a new level. But for most of this playoffs, Odom has been nowhere to be found. His offensive game that was once as smooth as a baby's backside is now more awkward than a Charles Barkley golf swing. When Odom is at his best, he's taking his guy off the dribble, knocking down mid-range jumpers, scoring around the rim, and getting to the line. Of late, all he seems to be able to manage are forced half-hooks in traffic and rushed shots from the perimeter. The Nuggets employ a host of solid interior defenders led by Kenyon Martin and Birdman Andersen, but Odom is certainly more capable than his '1 for 8, 3 turnovers, in 30 minutes' stat line would suggest. The guy has fought the rap of being lazy throughout his career. When he was a Clipper, it was probably true. He dealt with drug problems, and was more concerned with conceiving intricate on-court handshakes with Darius Miles and Quentin Richardson than actually playing basketball. But then Odom went to Miami for a year and started to dominate like everyone knew he always could. Perhaps he had seen the light. Odom is now in his 5th season alongside Kobe Bryant, and it is finally time for him to stop looking for others to bail him out. Lefthanded six foot ten forwards with an ability to handle the ball, dish off for easy buckets, and knock down the occasional trey do not come along very often. Odom has an unusual skill set to be sure. But whether that skill set actually makes an appearance in this now deadlocked series could be the difference between a second consecutive Lakers trip to the Finals or another long winter wondering, "How did such immense talents find their way into such an unmotivated soul?"

(While Odom's shortcomings on the court have been notable, he boasts one other feature that is impossible to ignore. And yes, I'm talking about the unsightly vein that adorns his right shoulder. I understand that it's not by choice and that it's probably out of his control, but can't he put a bandage over it or something? Can't he borrow that giant upper arm brace that J.J. Barea sports for the Mavs? Anytime I catch a glimpse of the Odom mega-vein, the same thought runs through my mind. "What's gonna happen if he gets scratched or catches a sharp elbow right to the vein?" I feel like all hell would just immediately break loose. The entire right limb would likely fall off, blood would spurt from everywhere, and what was once his distinct physical characteristic would now be the exact reason he was slowly dying on the court. Some might be shocked at his stunning in-game death, but there would be plenty of others insisting the man never even had a pulse to begin with. Definitely something to watch for in Game 5.)


-You have to admire the Nuggets bounce-back effort in Game 4 against the Lake Show. Chauncey was leading, J.R. Smith was draining long bombs, and Birdman was being Birdman. Follow-up dunks, ferocious shot blocks, and of course, through it all, looking like the scariest guy on the court. The man has tattoos on every inch of his arms and chest, and I'd be lying if I said that me and my brother Sam didn't spend a good part of the first half discussing whether or not Andersen had his "Personal Three Second Area" inked up as well. I'll leave the details of that conversation for another time...



Call me immature...call me a toddler...call me whatever you want. But I'm never, ever, going to be one hundred percent comfortable saying the word "pianist." You always end up trying to enunciate each syllable perfectly so it is abundantly clear what word is coming out of your mouth. But somehow, it always sounds just a little bit off. I mean, is that really the best word they could come up with for someone that plays the piano? Why not take a page out of Billy Joel's book and just call this kind of person a "Piano Man?" Wouldn't it make all of our lives a little bit easier, and a little less awkward? I know that Adrien Brody won a Best Actor Oscar for his highly regarded performance in "The Pianist," but I refused to see it. There's no way I was going up to the ticket counter and actually speaking the name of that title out loud in a public forum. You might think I'm crazy, but I bet the next time you ask someone if they are a "pianist," you will misspeak just a tad and wind up getting slugged right in the jaw. Believe me, I know from experience...


Any thoughts on the eventful Memorial Day Weekend? Drop a comment here or float me an e-mail at highsockslegend@gmail.com

Expect the Unexpected

Tim Kurkjian, a longtime baseball writer and ESPN contributor, has always been able to sum up the game's never-ending charm with one simple statement. "The great thing about baseball is, on any given night, you may see something you've never seen before." There have been more profound baseball quotes uttered over the years, but none more true. So many possibilities exist within one single game that you truly never know when you will witness such a play or sequence that will have you saying, "I can't recall ever seeing that before." I once saw a game at Tiger Stadium decided by a wild pitch...on an intentional walk. I was there when a 100-loss Tiger team began a game with back-to-back home runs off of future Hall-of-Famer Pedro Martinez, the first of which came off the bat of Ramon Santiago, who had never before homered in a major league game. Just the other day, the Tampa Bay Rays were forced to bat their starting pitcher, Andy Sonnanstine, 3rd in the order due to a faulty lineup card that listed two different players as the starting third baseman. So when I started drifting to sleep late Monday night with the Mets and Dodgers flickering on the tube, I fought back the yawns, perched up the pillow, and hoped I would see something I'd never seen before.

Things were moving along in a relatively normal fashion as the game entered the 11th inning, all tied at 2. With two outs in the top half, Mets right fielder Ryan Church poked a two-out single to left, keeping the inning alive. Church has pretty good speed, and with two outs, anything hit in the gap would most likely see him score and give the Mets the lead for the first time all night. Sure enough, Angel Pagan stepped up next and laced a shot towards the wall in right-center. The Dodger outfielders had no chance of making a play, and hurried over to try and play the ricochet. Only the ball managed to land right at the foot of the fence, and instead of careening back toward the fielders, it sort of wedged itself right in there, forcing Andre Ethier and Matt Kemp to go retrieve the ball and fire it back in. Meanwhile, Ryan Church was off at the crack of the bat, and with the high trajectory and long flight of the ball coupled with the subsequent pinning under the wall, he was cruising easily around the bases. Pagan took advantage as well, motoring all the way to third with an effortless stand-up triple. The Mets had grabbed a 3-2 lead, and still had a potential insurance run just 90 feet away.

But the Dodgers were crying foul, claiming that Church failed to touch 3rd on his trek around the bases. It reeked of desperation. I mean, you see that kind of appeal work in Little League sometimes, but not in The Show. Only tonight was unlike any other night. The Dodger pitcher threw the ball over to Mark Loretta, he stepped on the bag, and up went the umpire's fist. Out?? Out!!??? You would think that Church and the rest of the New Yorkers would have been after the men in blue lickety split to scream in protest, but there was no such argument. Church and the Mets did not object one iota. Sure enough, on the replay, you see Church take one giant step before the base and then another long skip to get over the base. He was like a horse trying to avoid hitting that top bar in the equestrian. As a matter of fact, Church didn't even try selling the gaffe to maybe fool the umps. Once he slid across home plate (though no throw was coming), he got up and sort of peeked over his shoulder towards third, hoping and begging that his mistake would go unnoticed. Not exactly the look of an innocent man. So on this majestic drive to the deepest part of the park that would have seen Franklin Roosevelt score standing up, Church had somehow been unable to place any part of his cleat on the third base bag as he strode past. You almost have to go out of your way to miss the thing entirely. It's not like aiming for a small pine cone in a heavily wooded forest. The base is a large white square sitting alone on a big brown patch of dirt set perfectly in line with the path that you're running on. But Church had committed this cardinal sin, and the Mets trudged back onto the field to play defense in the bottom of the 11th. You'd think the shenanigans would have ended there, but this game always keeps you guessing.

(Quick sidenote. To possibly stump your friends, ask them what Pagan would be credited with on this play. Answer: even though he ended up on third base, Pagan was given just a single in the box score. Since the runner ahead of him, Church, only legally achieved second base, Pagan could only be given a single. It took the Mets announcers a solid 15 minutes to figure this out.)

Loretta led off the home half with a walk. Ironically, on a night of comedic mishaps by the Metropolitans, this leadoff walk might have been the most costly. The Dodgers rookie outfielder, Xavier Paul, was up next with plans on sacrificing Loretta over to second. But Paul could do no such thing, and was eventually forced to swing away. He lofted a deep fly ball towards the warning track in left center. It hung up long enough, however, for the Mets outfielders to make an easy play on it. Pagan loped over from left, waving his mitt in the air indicating the ball was his. At the same time, Carlos Beltran was on the move from center, screaming his call for the ball. As the little white Rawlings began its final descent through the perfect LA night sky, it became clear that while both players were adamant about calling the ball, neither was as passionate about actually catching the ball. Pagan ended up veering off at the last second, Beltran made a clumsy, last-ditch emergency lunge, and the ball fell harmlessly to the ground directly between the puzzled duo. I guess strange plays happen in bunches. The Dodgers were now in business, with men on 2nd and 3rd, nobody out, and needing only one run to send everybody home happy.

Proving that this night was straight out of the twilight zone, the Mets were forced to intentionally walk the notoriously powerless Juan Pierre to load the bases. With an almost impossible situation on his hands, Jerry Manuel took a trip out to the mound to set up his defense. He motioned for Beltran to come in from center, positioning him as a 5th infielder behind the mound, just to the right of second base. It's always a unique sight to see on the field, but not once in my life can I recall this extra infielder actually seeing any action in the subsequent plays. Adding to the moment, Mets color analyst Ron Darling temporarily lost his mind, repeatedly lamenting the fact that Beltran was summoned to the infield instead of Pagan, and then criticizing the placement of him behind the mound. Apparently Darling had forgotten that the game at this point was basically a formality and that the odds of Beltran making any kind of play on the infield were remote.

Back to the game, Rafael Furcal had the first chance against righty Brian Stokes with the bags full and nobody down. With huge patches in the outfield now uncovered, Furcal could pretty much hit the ball anywhere and end this circus. Instead, Stokes got him to hit a baby pop-up towards left and Pagan put it away with no advancement. Could the Mets possibly escape the frame without any damage? Orlando Hudson was up next, sporting a robust .341 average. Surely he would crack this gimmick defense and find a hole to push the final run across. But Stokes was not going down without a fight. He battled Hudson with tough sliders, and finally got him to hit his pitch. Hudson bounded a harmless one-hopper to Mets 1st sacker Jeremy Reed. The only problem is that Reed had spent a total of one inning at this spot in the first five years of his career. He was only here on this night because earlier in the day, the Mets learned that Carlos Delgado would need serious hip surgery. But despite his inexperience at the position, this was still a play that 99% of Little Leaguers could make. Glove the Sunday hop, step toward the target, and make a solid throw to the plate. The Mets would be just one out away from seeing the 12th inning, when it had looked like a sheer impossibility just minutes before. However, on a night with a player missing third base in a most crucial situation, a botched fly ball, and a 3-time Gold Glove award-winning outfielder playing on the infield, it was not to be. Reed fielded the Hudson bouncer, and just as he was ready to release the ball, Stokes was seen moving in his direction while trying to duck simultaneously to avoid bothering the toss. The nervous first baseman unleashed a wild throw to the backstop that only Chuck Knoblauch or Rick Ankiel would have been proud of. It was three feet too high, six feet too wide, and the perfect end to an imperfect night.

Baseball is not without its flaws. Some complain that the pace is too slow and the games are too long. There are new steroid accusations on an almost daily basis. But on a night like this, you realize that Tim Kurkjian had it right all along. No matter if it's a World Series game or just a ho-hum late night affair in mid-May, there is always that chance you will see something that you've never seen before. This was one of those times. I'm just glad I decided to stay up.


The High Socks Legend is always eager to hear your thoughts...share them here or drop me an e-mail at highsockslegend@gmail.com

The Longest Hour of Your Life

It is arguably the most dreaded social interaction in our society. The guy spots you checking out a couple pairs of kicks, and just by the way he walks over, you know he means business. "Can I help you with anything, sir?," the seemingly innocent gentleman asks. The only way this guy can help me is by staying out of my life...permanently. But he never does. They find out which shoe you're interested in. But they aren't going to retrieve a pair just yet. First they have to take a measure of your foot with that kamikaze-style device. The guy lays the metal thing down by your feet, and then proceeds to plop himself on the floor. It's always uncomfortable at this point, since you are now towering over this mook as he prepares the tool for his intricate procedure. With your commanding position of posture, you can't help but feel like some kind of King with your servants far below you tending to your every need.

You put your heel against the back of this thing, at which point the guy slides a few dials back and forth with the careful precision of a neurosurgeon, all to tell you that you are a size 12, just as you have been for the last zillion years. The guy is always such a punk when he's doing it too, saying things like, "Make sure your foot is all the way back...are you sure it's ALL the way back?" and "Stand up straight now, son." The problem is that sometimes it becomes a tough task to keep your balance with one hoof on solid ground and the other firmly entrenched in foot-measuring prison. This leads to the inevitable lean forward, come close to falling, but ultimately stay upright by holding onto the sales guy's shoulders. This is by far the most uncomfortable possible scenario in the whole shoe selection process. The shoulder grab can be construed by shoe-man as something that it's not. It could lead to a lawsuit, a potential discount, or a date for Saturday night. Bottom line...when that metal foot measure makes an appearance, nothing good is about to happen.

So now he's off to the mythical "back area" of the store to get the appropriate size of the shoe you requested. Only he aint just comin' back with that shoe. He's also got a couple of other boxes with shoes that "I thought you might like." Easy, big fella. If I wanted your opinion, I would beat it out of you. You'd think that at this point, you would be left alone with the shoes to see what works. No, sir. Shoe guy is back kneeling on the floor again, opening the box for you and offering to lace 'em up. I've never been sure why the shoes can't just be laced up already in the box. Once he's made this offer, you feel like you should accept. But then again, you feel extremely lazy sitting there with two fully functioning hands while this guy swoops the laces through the holes. In our defense as customers though, lacing up a sneaker is no small potatoes. The criss-cross action that is required certainly complicates things, and the holes that the laces have to fit through are the size of a grain of sand. Finally, the kicks are laced up all the way and homeboy hands you the shoe to try it on. But more problems await.

These are all supposed to be your size, but somehow the first one you try on does not fit at all. It's so tight around your foot that you are forced to scrunch up all your toes and endure extreme pain just to get it all the way in. You take it off to check the size on that little tag under the tongue. After searching through the various bizarre countries listed (just once I want a shoe that doesn't list UK on the inside) and their accompanying sizes and managing to decipher the tiny font, you see that it is indeed the right one (US 12) and should fit like a glove. You confusingly hand the shoe back to the salesman and tell him it's a no-go. He doesn't seem fazed, though. He proceeds to stuff his hand inside the shoe and reach in as if searching for some prize at the bottom of a box of Corn Pops. His well-traveled mitt emerges from the Nike grasping a large, balled-up portion of that day's newspaper. "Oh, how silly, you must have forgotten to take out the paper, sir!," he says with a huge laugh. Yeah, silly me. I was under the far-fetched impression that I would simply be able to try on a gym shoe without first searching for crumpled reading material in each and every crevice of the leather. Fit me for a friggin' straitjacket.

Now the shoe is back on your foot, sans paper, and feeling very cozy. You take a few steps with the shoe on to see how it feels. Everything seems good. You might even be ready to purchase. Not so fast. The guy wants to see you put the left one on too, and "run around a little bit." It's not enough for the shoes to fit perfectly and feel great all the way around. This power-hungry maniac has to always demand that you display your sprinting prowess in the minimal space provided. What is this guy looking for, here? It never even seems like he's actually paying attention to the shoe and whether it's staying on your foot. Instead, he's morphed into some type of amateur Olympic scout looking for the next phenom. "Pump those arms...get those knees up!!," the psychotic salesman yelps. At this point, you realize the shoe doesn't really feel that great, but you're willing to do whatever it takes to get out the door and breathe fresh air again. You tell the guy it's all good, and you are ready to pay.

So close to the finish line. Except there's always that one mind-bender of a question left in the guy's holster. He holds up the new shoes and asks, "You gonna wear these out?" You take a look outside and see that it's pouring, and you'd rather just wear the old ones until you got home to keep the new guys fresh and clean. Only you know that this isn't the answer Shoe Monster is looking for. If you tell him now to box up the new ones instead of wearing them out of the store, there is no telling what he would do to himself or the next customer that entered his reign of terror. This is similar to asking a waitress, "Which is better, the pancakes or the french toast?," then having her strongly recommend the pancakes, and you going the other way.

Even though you tell Shoe Guy that you're only wearing the old ones temporarily to keep from damaging the newbies, you know that he's worried sick that the change might never come. And it kills him.

But your heart glows.

He might have dominated the game and taken advantage of you on numerous occasions. But when all is said and done, you're walking out of there as a free man wearing the same pair of old beat-up Reeboks that you high-stepped in with 45 minutes ago. And you got a balloon.

Game, set, and match.


Gettin' shoes is never really a pleasant experience. Agree? Drop a comment here or kick me an e-mail at highsockslegend@gmail.com

The Un-Friendly Confines

The Tigers entered the state of Minnesota feeling pretty darn good. They had just completed a brilliantly pitched three-game sweep over the Indians. The starters were dominant, the relievers were solid, and all seemed to be right in Tiger Town. But there's one thing that Minnesota has that Cleveland does not: the Metrodome. Or more aptly titled, the Detroit Tigers Very Own Personal House of Horrors. More than any other park in the American League, you just never feel like a lead is 100% safe in that giant bubble. The grass is fake, the fans are noisy, and the opposing hitters are downright frisky. And when the dust finally settled on this 3-game set, the Tigers found themselves trudging home empty handed. And dreading the next trip back to Minneapolis.

The opener on Tuesday night was just a flat performance that will happen more than a few times during a 162-game season. Armando Galarraga was shaky and the Tiger bats were quiet. No reason to panic. Still two opportunities to grab a game in this godforsaken building.

The second contest had it all. Dontrelle Willis made his 2009 debut and proceeded to get hit harder than a Lawrence Phillips ex-girlfriend. The sooner he realizes that he is the present-day Rick Ankiel and that his only future lies in being a position player, the better off all of us will be. Somehow, the Tigers battled back with long bombs courtesy of Miguel Cabrera, Brandon Inge, and Glenallen Hill-impersonator, Jeff Larish. But like all games in the Metrodome, you can't be sure of anything until the final out is recorded. Sure enough, a 2-run lead in the 8th went up in smoke when Jason Kubel took a Joel Zumaya fireball and promptly blasted it somewhere in the general direction of Mars. It seems that Kubel was raised on the Matt Stairs' school of hitting where you try to hit every single pitch as far as humanly possible. Give that guy 7-8 years, and he'll be checking in at the same 300 bills that Stairs has been for the last decade.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 12:30 AM, Curtis Granderson laced a signature triple with just one out. Perfect. But after a short pop fly by Potato Head Polanco failed to get him in, Granderson took matters into his own hands. Or more appropriately, his feet. Grandy stutter-stepped a bluff towards the dish. Twinkie reliever Jesse Crain panicked and went through with a halted delivery so awkward that a balk was called even though nobody seemed to really know where the infraction occurred. Normally, when you score a run in such bizarre fashion in the 13th inning of a marathon game, the home team is so demoralized that they are content to take their three quick outs in the bottom half and get to sleep. But not in the Metrodome.

Kubel (or Ruth, whichever you prefer) led off with a single. Trouble. A sacrifice moved him over. Then a Bermuda Triangle single by Twins 2nd sacker Matt Tolbert tied things up again. The Twins have mastered the "we might not hit it hard, but you can be sure we're hitting it in the exact perfect place" technique. Tolbert is another example of the perennial Twins' annoyance. They always have that same no-stick, good gloved, 2nd baseman that hangs around for a few years before a new scrub comes along. Luis Rivas held the title for a while, Alexi Casilla carried the torch after that, and now Matt Tolbert is continuing the tradition proudly. Somewhere, Steve Lombardozzi is smiling. So with the game now tied and Tolbert aboard, it was simply a matter of how the Twins would pull it out. The bases were ultimately loaded with two outs, and longtime Tigers assassin Joe Crede was stepping into the box. On the mound, Brandon Lyon was in his third inning of work and looking malnourished. The matchup was so uneven that Crede could have been forced to use one of those plastic light-sabres you used to get at the circus and he still would have hit the ball 450 feet. Sure enough, Lyon tried to coax one more breaking ball out of his dying arm, and Crede deposited it for a walk-off slam.
Metrodome 2, Tigers 0.

But they had one more shot. Justin Verlander was on the hill. There's been no hotter pitcher over the last month. Jim Leyland even pegged Magglio back into the 3-slot in the order to try and get his bat going. The Tigers were determined to come home with at least one W in their back pocket. Through six innings, Verlander was masterful. Practically untouchable. Of the 19 outs he recorded, 13 were marked with a 'K' in the scorebook. And finally, the Tigers busted out with an inning of their own and hung a crooked 5-spot in the 6th. So now they had a five run lead in the 7th inning with their ace pitcher cruising along, and the players dead tired after an excruciatingly long game the night before. Even this was not something the Twins and the Metrodome could overcome. Think again. Verlander was pulled after two men reached with one out. Bobby Seay entered to face the Twins' parade of lefties, where he excels. Unfortunately, there's good Bobby Seay, there's bad Bobby Seay, and then on a day like this one, there is "I'm literally going to throw a beach ball towards the plate" Bobby Seay. Finally, Zach Miner was summoned from what is now looking like a pretty shaky scene down in the Tigers' pen. As if the series couldn't end any other way, Joe Crede broke his bat on another perfectly placed Metrodome single and the home team had the final lead, 6-5.

Having difficulty in a certain stadium or venue is not unique to just the Tigers and their Metrodome struggles. In the NBA, the Pistons have gone to Utah for the last 25 years and all they have to show for it are some gut-wrenching losses and one very painful Mailman-to-Isiah elbow. The Lions have trekked up to frigid Lambeau every year since '92 and have come up short every single time. Kevin Bacon's Winabi tribe emerged victorious in The Air Up There, but I don't think anybody believes in their heart of hearts that they win that game if it is played in Mingori territory. Sometimes a home field just means that much. And this week was one of those times. There's just something unfriendly to the visiting team about the Metrodome. Maybe it's the vastly under reported story that their workers were manipulating the air conditioning system during the '87 and '91 title runs to aid the Twins' cause. Or it could be the "Am I a football field or a baseball diamond" dilemma that makes for odd dimensions and poor sight lines. Or maybe it's the fact that every single ball hit in the gap by a Tiger over the last five years has wound up one-hopping over the fence for a ground-rule double, always with a man on first that would have easily scored otherwise. In the past, unknown baseball vagabonds like Jason Tyner and Lew Ford immediately turn into the second coming of Mantle and Maris when dropped into the ultra-friendly home confines of the Metrodome. The Tigers return to Comerica Park tonight, and you can imagine that coming home never felt so good.

There's a small silver lining in this frustrating series sweep. Target Field, the new home to the Twins, is scheduled to be ready for play Opening Day next season. It will be outdoors with real grass. Which means that the Big Bubble in Minnesota will no longer be able to torment the Tigers with its high bounces, garbage bag homers, and unorthodox rallies. But like any big change in life, you wonder if the Tigers might wind up missing the old guy once he's gone and replaced with a newer, shinier, version. After the last 72 hours of misery...I think they'll handle it just fine.


The High Socks Legend can be reached at highsockslegend@gmail.com