Sports Desk 

From the Scene’s desk at McCabe Pub

From the Scene’s desk at McCabe Pub

The regulars at the Scene Sports Desk regard trash-talk as an art form, not a vice. So it was with a smile that participants greeted Barry Bonds’ recent remarks about Babe Ruth, which seem to have bunched the collective shorts of the baseball world into a wad. “I got his slugging percentage, and I’ll take his home runs and that’s it,” Bonds said. “Don’t talk about [Ruth] no more.” From the reaction among the Media Geniuses, you’d have thought Bonds had slurred the Pope’s mama while burning a U.S. flag with lighted farts (expressly forbidden under the Patriot Act). Actually, that is what some of the MGs thought Bonds had done until someone reminded them that (a) Bonds in fact surpassed the Bambino’s slugging percentage, and (b) everyone thinks Bonds will reach 715 home runs if he stays healthy. Of course, Bonds is wrong to say we shouldn’t talk about Ruth, who remains the best all-around player ever. Don’t forget that Ruth might have become a Hall of Fame pitcher had he not concentrated on swinging bats. But also don’t forget that no one would have enjoyed Bond’s barbs more than the Babe, who once threw a little smack of his own at the president. Asked how he could justify earning a larger salary than Herbert Hoover, Babe shrugged, “I had a better year than he did.” Babe knew and Barry knows: It ain’t braggin’ if it’s fact. ♦ The juices, creative and otherwise, apparently flowed a little too effortlessly around the Sports Desk last week. As two readers who actually pay attention to sports noticed, the winner of the British Open was named Curtis, not Wallace—though we’re proud to say we did correctly report his first name, Ben, which happens to be the first name of the tallest peak in Scotland, which is where the Open is often held, which is the other little detail we got wrong, though the moors of Royal St. George’s do resemble the coastal moors of Scotland. But anyway, yes, Jeff, we were watching the Open, though, thankfully, not every bloody minute, and we probably would’ve aced even the niggling details like the winner and location if someone hadn’t laced our beverages with LSD. Of course, that’s hindsight. ♦ This Saturday, the happy lunatics of Section 303 host their annual Slapshot Party, and they’re inviting all likeminded (God help you) souls, along with the often contentious lunatics at the Sports Desk. It’s sort of a summer solstice of hockey, complete with food (BYOF), virgin sacrifices and a ritualized viewing of the greatest hockey film of all time. Visit for all the details.

—Randy Horick


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