Pittsburgh Dish

18-1

Hahahahahahahahaha!

Photo: Scene where a local Patriots fan's hopes for perfection were murdered.

What a long strange football season it was. Almost from the first week, a fourth Super Bowl victory seemed a preordained, unavoidable fait accompli of the gridiron for the New England Patriots. In the beginning, the Pats blitzkrieg looked unstoppable, as they shamelessly ran up the score in DC and Dallas. I hated them. As the season wore on, they became a more familiar villain, winning close games against the Ravens, Eagles and Giants. These were the guys who had won three Super Bowls by a combined nine points, the ones who hung around like a venereal disease and squeaked out wins in the waning moments. It was even more demoralizing than their shock and awe attack tactics. I knew this team. They were enough to quell my love for the game.

I didn’t look forward to the playoffs and by the time Super Bowl XLII rolled into Glendale, Arizona, I was dreading it. Even worse, I was already dreading the 2008 season. I felt like King Henry II inciting his henchmen to assassinate Archbishop of Canterbury. Would nobody rid me of these meddlesome cheaters?

I wasn't myself. I was more apathetic about football than ever before in my life. The Patriots seemed, literally, bullet-proof. SpyGate? But a trifle. Salary Cap? No problem. Injuries? Those are for other teams. Their march toward immortality was downright inexorable.

I could not bring myself to watch Bill Belichick equal Chuck Noll (at least so far as the record books were concerned.) I couldn’t stand to see Tedy Bruschi and his childish cohort, Mike Vrabel, celebrate again. I couldn’t stomach the talk that, not only should Randy Moss be inducted into Canton at the first possible moment, he should win the Nobel Prize for Peace for behaving like an adult for the first time in his life. I could not watch owner Robert Kraft (who aligns himself with Jerry Jones and Danny Snyer at every owners meeting, giving new meaning to the term, Axis of Evil), hoist the trophy.

I had gone completely off the reservation in my hatred of the Patriots. So disheartened was I that for the first time since Super Bowl IX, I barely watched the game, seeing probably only 10 minutes of live action. What kind of crazy voodoo had the Patriots domination of all things NFL wrought? I blame head cheat, Bill Belichick.

For football fans, Super Bowls mark the passage of time. I can tell you where I was, who I was with and, despite the adage that nobody remembers the losers, I remember them. I’m enough of a dork that I’ve committed to memory the results of Super Bowls I through VIII. And enough of a geek that I simply remember IX through XLII.

I watched some stinkers. I distinctly remember folding laundry as a gimpy Doug Williams rained down TD’s on a shell-shocked Broncos’ defense in Super Bowl XXII. I watched in my college dorm on a tiny television as the Bears dominated the Patriots in every possible way in Super Bowl XX, giving Tony Eason a certain case of post-traumatic stress disorder. I watched the amazing Niners comeback over the "Ickey Shuffle" Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII at a friend’s apartment in the East End (we ordered in some fantastic Chinese food and smoked something that you might find in Randy Moss’ ashtray. If you know what I mean.)

I remember watching Super Bowl XXV, of the infamous "wide right" Norwood kick alone in my first apartment on Butler Street. I watched the Pats first Super Bowl win in XXXVI at a party in my North Side neighborhood.

I remember freezing while watching John Elway get his first ring in Super Bowl XXXIII at a bar that had no heat. It was about 7 degrees Fahrenheit outside and not much warmer inside, but the wings and beer, football and friends were enough to keep us there.

I always associate the Ravens win in Super Bowl XXXV with my friend R.J. screaming, "Aaaah! I’m blind!" as commissioner Tagliabue passed the Lombardi Trophy to Art Modell.

The Redskins broke open Super Bowl XVII when John Riggins’ ripped off a touchdown run on a 4th and 2 play. I watched that one with my Uncle Brendan. Several years later, he died in a car crash, and although that wasn’t the last football game we watched together, it was the last Super Bowl. I’ve had a soft spot for Riggins ever since.

But no matter the company, I simply could not bear to watch that gang of beantown miscreants crow after their inevitable Super Bowl XLII win. I feared it would make me violent. Or ill. Or, more likely, violently ill with Linda Blair like projectile vomit spewing all over the beautiful HD screen.

So it came to pass that I rented season one of "Rescue Me" and turned on the game intermittently. By the time Super Bowl XLII was over, Eli Manning gave me my football groove back. I never would have guessed that my hero who would be the lesser scion of the self-proclaimed royal clan of football. The Aw Shucks Kid, the kid straight out of a central casting for a revival of Mayberry RFD, Eli Manning, beat Tom Terrific, of the Hollywood good looks and trail of super models in his wake.

And for denying the Patriots their perfect season and place among the immortals in sport, and in very Patriot like fashion, I am forever indebted to Michael Strahan, Justin Tuck and Osi Umenyiora, Eli, Tom Coughlin and Plaxico Burress. Oh, it's a good feeling.

So congrats to the New York Giants and the Mara family and especially the fans. Because it sucks to have your team travel this far and lose. Just ask the Patriots faithful.

18-1, baby, 18-1. Say it again. It feels good. 18-1. This isn’t as good as the afterglow after Super Bowl Extra Large, but it’s damned close.

Three rings, not four. 18-1. I can hardly wait for training camp.

Win one for the griper

Cheer on the Giants Super Bowl Sunday

I'm about to play upon your sympathies dear Steelers fans, to root for the New York Football Giants in this year's Super Bowl.

I know many of you don't give a toss about throwing support behind a team from the Empire State. New Yorkers think civilization ends at the tip of each of the five boroughs. Why spend Sunday night backing a team
that doesn't even play in their home state?

I humbly ask for your support for one reason: My Dad. Grandpa Dish.

Bill Van Tassell died on September 11 from complications of Alzheimer's at the age of 80. Toward the end of his life he lived in a tragic world of confusion brought on by misfiring synapses that twisted and erased his memory. The disease slowly wiped out all the things that he loved. One of these was football. Chiefly the Giants.

Dad's appreciation for the gridiron ran deep and long. In the ‘40s, he played on a semi-pro team in New York's lower Hudson Valley region called the Beacon Bears. A photo of his leather helmeted team hung in the back room of Mi-Ro's bar on Main Street until its closing in 2006. He also coached kids on how to throw a spiral in the Pop Warner league and believed that no pint-sized player should ever be benched for being less than perfect.

Nor should any football fan root for a team that is perfect.

After his team went 4-10 in 1971 following Fran Tarkenton's trade back to the Vikings, Dad threatened never to watch "those bums." He barked that for the next 35 seasons.

His green "leather" recliner, held together with duct tape which he tried to "blend in" using green(ish) Magic Marker, nearly crumpled to bits under his pounding fists on Sunday afternoons and Monday nights. The left brace of the foot rest fell off after years of watching the Giants fumble and "that jerk" Howard Cosell's post-game analysis. Duct tape to the rescue.

Dad's devotion wasn't displayed via plunking down his modest IBM salary in an NFL giftshop. Dad occasionally sported a Giants hat and windbreaker but that's as far as he'd take his sartorial fidelity. He'd simply pour a can of Knickerbocker beer into a glass, top it off with salt, settle into "his chair" and watch the game on our Zenith console. Sports bars were out of the question. His loyalty to the Giants was solitary. But never quiet.

Dad's frustrations during the lean seasons resulted in incomprehensible bellows very similar to those of Raphie's Old Man in "A Christmas Story." Just what he groused remains a secret between him and his football God.

He’d buy the NY Post and the Daily News and religiously read them back to front in his “library.” His car radio was always tuned to 660 on the AM dial.

In the 60s and 70s Dad taught me everything he knew about football via the "Jints." I absorbed enough about the sport that, many years later when Mr. Dish and I moved to Pittsburgh, I could hold my own in this sometimes unforgiving football town.

I'm not asking you, Dear Reader, to rush out and buy a Giants flag. Just tune into Super Bowl on Saturday and root for the Old Man.

Brady Quinn: Social Disease

New Browns QB given "the treatment"

by Jody DiPerna

On my way to get some travel immunizations at the County Health Department a few days after the draft, I passed the waiting room for the sexually transmitted disease clinic. The waiters were all pointedly not making eye-contact, each perfecting his or her singular slouch of shame. You could almost smell the anxiety.

NFL GM's must be gripped by the same unease and disquiet right about now, waiting to see if their picks will bring them glory or ignominy. By now, most media dorks, I mean draft experts, believe that Brady Quinn will revive the Browns' franchise. But like all front offices, the Browns know there’s always a chance their new QB will prove to be a latter-day Rick Mirer, another overrated Notre Dame QB bust. Since my visit to the Allegheny County Health Department in Oakland, which hasn't seen the business end of a paint brush since the Nixon Administration, I started to wonder: don't we all rank potential bed mates the same way that NFL GM's rank draft picks?

And if we do, where does Quinn fit in?

The middle- to-later round picks are the guys you might pick up who are kinda cute, well-groomed and polite. He may not have perfect pedigree, but he’s good for some unencumbered snogging and maybe dating until something better comes along. There's a chance he might turn out to be special, but if he isn’t, he won’t embarrass you around your friends and you probably won't remember him in five years anyway.



Free agent pick ups show no signs of disease or mental illness ... and since it's closing time ... and it's been an awfully long time ... If this works out, you're a genius, by the way.

The high picks are good looking, smart and funny.

These are potential life-mates. They are franchise changing. Giving up a number two and next year's number one to get Quinn, it's clear that the Browns expect Quinn to be Mr. Right. He comes from a big time program, with good size, strength and a really strong arm. He's built to take the pounding of an NFL season and keep getting up.

So, let's say you're a young GM, out on the town looking for romantic company. You’re on the clock. As you make your move, you never think to yourself, "She's cute, but I wonder if she's going to give me the clap?" Regardless of whether she’s free agent type or she might be "the one," nobody expects crabs.


The level of shame, fear and anxiety produced is in inverse proportion to the expectations of about the closing bell dance partner. A free agent from Division III with gonorrhea is horrible, but there’s not much invested and a discreet trip to the docs clears it all up.

A first round draft pick out of the SEC who lands you at the sexually transmitted disease clinic is a disaster. Imagine picking up the woman of your dreams, and, instead of the house in the Shadyside with the Hummer in the driveway, you end up a nasty case of the French Pox. And she pilfered all your Clash CD's. It could take years of psychotherapy and multiple doses of penicillin to get past that.

This is the equivalent of a first round bust, particularly at the QB position. It can set a franchise's psyche back a decade, if not more. It's the worst thing that can happen. Short of picking Ryan Leaf, who has to be considered the ebola virus of draft picks. Enter Mr. Quinn, who presents like marriage material, but given his happy feet and inability to win under pressure, I wonder if he’s one of those guys who’s just good on paper, but not on game day.

Given the media spotlight, the Browns will keep sticking Quinn on the field, sure that he's just about ready to break out, and he'll show just enough promise to keep them optimistic. With a strong enough cast around him, he may even perform well enough to get them back to the playoffs. But he'll never be able to carry a team. He'll never pull off the Roethlisberger-like dramatic play; or the precise, Brady-esque soul-killing drive; he'll never even put up the mad numbers of Peyton Manning.

Yes, Brady Quinn is the next Kordell Stewart. (You thought I was going to go the Michael Vick route, didn't you?) He won't land you at the STD clinic with genital warts, but he certainly won't have you partying at a Super Bowl parade, either.

When that realization hits, probably somewhere around 2013, the powers that be at Browns headquarters will be doing a potato-bug slouch of shame to rival even the most bedraggled visitor to the Allegheny County Health Department's STD clinic.

If I'm wrong, I'll eat dinner with Charlie Weis. And get a shot of penicillin. Just to be on the safe side.

Penn State's Portland quits

Lesbians rejoice, shave legs

From SI.com:

Penn State women's basketball coach Rene Portland resigned today ending a 27-year tenure in which she won 606 games but battled allegations that she discriminated against women who like the ladies.

Lesbians around the country are celebrating.

Lilith Fair '07 is in the works, Naot will offer significant discounts to sizes 9 and over, and Bloodroot, a restaurant in Connecticut, will treat customers to Pears Isabel all afternoon.

Duquesne jocks jinxed

Outbreak of French Pox on rowing team next.

From AP:

Duquesne hockey club players hurt in hit-and-run, police say

PITTSBURGH-Three members of Duquesne University's club hockey team were struck by a hit-and-run driver after an argument at a bar early Monday morning, according to police and school officials.

One victim had a broken leg and a severe cut on his left leg requiring surgery, a second had a neck injury and facial cuts, and a third refused treatment, police said.

Mike Heath, 22, a forward from Richmond, British Columbia, was listed in fair condition, according to Mercy Hospital. A second player and a coach were also involved, but their names and conditions were not immediately available.

The hockey team is a club sport at Duquesne, according to the school.

The three got into an argument with three other people at the pub, but were separated by bar staff and left shortly afterward. As they walked across a parking lot, a passenger in a car asked what they were looking at and the driver drove at them, police said.

Police were searching for a silver Oldsmobile and had the name of one suspect, said police spokeswoman Tammy Ewin.

It is the second violent altercation involving Duquesne athletes this year.

On Sept. 17, five basketball players were shot following an on-campus party.

Invasion of the Steeler Snatchers

The team that fell asleep.

by Sports Editor Jody DiPerna

I hate everybody. I'm more depressed than Chet Baker and angrier than Johnny Rotten circa 1976. I'm more disillusioned than Morrissey. I yearn for the days of slittin' throats (metaphorically speaking, on the football field, that is.) There's no other way to say it, what the Chargers did to the Steelers in the second half was tantamount to what the Sisters did to Andy Dufresne.

There are problems all over the place. The O Line has had two good games and two bad ones, and one of the good ones was wasted against the Bengals. The wide outs have been, well, not quite ghastly, but certainly uninspired. Even Hines is dropping passes and I didn't realize that he caught with his injured hammy. Heath Miller is the best available receiving option right now, and he's only got 11 receptions on the year.

Other than in the Miami game, the defense has yet to step up and make a big play to win when they need it, save for Larry Foote's sack of Rivers Sunday night. I haven't seen such sloppy tackling since I last watched a Pitt game in the Walt Harris era. In short, it's atrocious, except Deshea Townsend and Ryan Clark. Dick Lebeau should cue up the Jack Ham highlight reel for the boys. Tackling 101, especially for PuPu.

They won't win any games playing just one half of defensive football. This from the unit that used to refer to themselves as the 60 Minute Men. Not any more. Now there like maybe "quarter hour men" or "22 minute men."

I don't even want to talk about Special Teams. I really don't. The kick return to open the 2nd half? I cannot speak or write about it. Do you think they could get through one game without a serious break down? Just one game? Never mention special teams in my presence.

The coaching has been, um, indifferent or misguided. You pick.

I wonder what Bill is thinking when Ken Whisenhunt calls a flea flicker which won't work because the Chargers D is not going to bite on the run. Frankly, why would they have?

I think Cowher’s thinking something along the lines of, "Hmmmm, for the new study, I'd like something manly, but not stodgy. Some really rich toned woods, but lots of light and air, too. Definitely high ceilings and lots of windows. And maybe I can buy some Stickley furniture with that last bonus check."

Or what he's thinking when Kevin Spencer calls the worst fake punt in the history of faux punting. "Gee, I haven't heard back from that country club in Greensboro. I've just got to get in there and play on those greens! I have to remember to call Kay before I get on the plane and have her call them first thing in the morning."

And the quarterbacking, well, it's been downright Bristerian. The pick that Ben threw in the 4th quarter, when the Steelers were driving to try to tie the game? Vintage Walter Bubby Brister, right there.

Up to this season, one of Ben's best qualities has always been his good decision making. Now, he's tossing lollipops up there for grabs pretty consistently. And his blase wide outs haven't been helping him much. Santonio's telegraphing routes. Hines' hamstring seems to be affecting his hands. Ced Wilson's been, well, pretty much like Ced Wilson last regular season and by that I mean, pretty much non-existent.

One of Ben's other wonderful qualities has always been his preternatural strength and escapability. Brady's the best at running a two minute drill. Palmer and Grossman throw the prettiest deep ball. McNair and Favre have always been the toughest, even though their days are numbered. Peyton's the best at reading a defense. Vick's the most dangerous runner. But Ben's always been the best, I think, at escaping the rush, buying time, looking down field and occasionally scrambling for a first down or two. But he's not escaping the rush and he’s not running. Ever. He's either throwing up a jump ball or taking a sack, usually dropping the ball in the process.

Phillip Rivers took a page out of Ben’s 2004 book and took off for two key first downs that kept his team driving. They were huge pick ups for his team. It was the kind of thing that Ben did, and did with regularity in big situations in the past. I got out my magnifying glass to check his running stats this year: he's taken off running two times in three games for -1 yards. Yes, that is negative one yards rushing. Last year, he averaged 2.2 yards per carry (and he ran 31 times.) His rookie year, he ran 56 times and averaged 2.6 yards per attempt.

I don't care why the change has occurred and I don't think it's appropriate to speculate. But he sure doesn't look at all like the old Ben. With his distaste for running being obvious, it's only gonna get worse because defenses are going to come after him in swarms.

Teams have come back from 1-3 starts to get to the playoffs. The Patriots started 1-3 in 2001 and won it all in the end. I'd find that thought comforting, if the Steelers had shown the ability to put a complete game together, but they haven't shown much. And the injury bug is rearing it's head as I write this. Hines' hammy is still a problem. Polamalu is not right, no matter what he says. I find it hard to believe that he's simply forgotten how to take an angle or make a tackle. One of the few defensive bright spots, Brett Keisel, is probably out with a rib injury. Joey Porter and Deshea Townsend both injured their hamstrings in practice on Wednesday. Porter's back up, James Harrison, is out with a high ankle sprain. The only glimmer of hope on special teams, Willie Reid, is out with a mid-foot injury (whatever that is.) Kendall Simmons missed practice on Wednesday with a burn on his foot.

Somebody's gotta step up and make something happen. Last year, when they needed a spark, they had Jerome provide it in the Bears game. But he’s gone and most of the other usual suspects are nicked. So, who can do something to kick start this team? Heath Miller? Najeh Davenport? Santonio Holmes? Ike Taylor? Arnold Harrison? Please god, somebody do something. They can't lose to a Damon Huard led team.

Can they?

Fowl hat unearthed

Owner seeks help identifying mysterious chicken chapeau.

Update: Ace Post-Gazette reporter cracks the case.

From Bill Toland:

It's called the Rooster Booster, I believe. At least, that's what I've always called it. Yes, it was Steeler-related, or so I'm told. It's probably worth $600-$700 on eBay.

Just kidding, it's not worth a sack of splinters on eBay. But the Rooster Booster part, I think, is more or less accurate.

Dear Dish,

I was cleaning out a closet (and found R. Kelly! Unreal!) and came across this hat that I know was from my childhood in the 70s. It doesn't specifically say Steelers on it anywhere, but it clearly must have had something to do with sports back then. But beer and smoke have clouded my memories of childhood, so if anyone remembers what the hell a chicken wool cap is for, I'd be appreciative.

Thank you,

Patrick [photographer, i heart pgh scribe and owner of baffling chicken hat]

Mercury Rising

Sports Editor Jody DiPerna offers Steelers fans a cold compress.

Can anybody tell me how many Jaguar defenders were allowed on the field at one time on Monday night? 14? 18? They were everywhere. As my buddy Fleck wondered, did they do it with mirrors?

And still, I don’t feel so bad. After most losses, I don’t sleep well, which I realize is insane, but the fact remains that I don’t. I slept like a baby on Monday night. And maybe that’s what a Super Bowl ring does to you. In the 1970's, I was always shocked when the Steelers lost: they were so good I expected them to win every game. When they did lose (the 1976 playoffs notwithstanding) I could take it, precisely because they won so often in the clutch.

In the 1980's we all readjusted our expectations - "Steelers are losin’, So we’re boozin’" Then came the Cowher era and they started to win all the time. And yet. It was unsatisfying. 1994. 1995. 1997. 2001. 2004. It was like a form of battle fatigue or something. So when they won it all last year the sense of foreboding was gone; I don’t expect the other shoe to drop at every turn.

Like a Zen master, I’m at peace with the loss on Monday. And that’s good for me. I’m too old to toss and turn because a bunch of wealthy, young athletes who don’t know me lose a contest. But I certainly hope they don’t feel that way. I’m maintaining that Monday was a glitch. The better team won, which doesn’t mean that if they meet again, Jacksonville will be the better team, but they played a better game.

The Steelers offense just couldn't get anything going, because the O Line didn't open up many holes, Ben was off, just by a hair, really, and his receivers dropped passes. Whizzer likewise dropped the ball by going away from his tight ends, again. But mostly, the Jags really did a great job of closing off the lanes the Steelers wanted to use and forcing the Steelers into three and outs.

Chilling stat number one: the Steelers amassed a total of NINE first downs all night. That's how many days Ferris Bueller missed before his most famous day off. They converted three third downs, but I can't remember them converting any. They crossed the 50 only once, didn't even smell the red zone and held the ball for only 22 minutes.

Chilling stat number two: the Steelers starting drive averaged their own 18 yard line. Can somebody kindly explain to me the logic behind keeping Ivy League re-tread Sean Morey on the active game day roster and No. 3 draft pick Willie Reid is inactive every week? Does Morey have photos of Bill Cowher doing something he oughtn't?

I'm developing a Pavlovian response to the idiot twins back there on kicks. Before either Holmes or Colclough touches the ball, I start swearing like I'm at a tourettes convention. Of the punts that Hanson launched, only one was returned. By Colclough for 3 yards, but only after he bobbled the thing off his facemask and shoulder pads just to keep things exciting. For his part, Holmes returned two kick for 36 total yards, but it didn’t seem like he got anything on his returns. Lies, damn lies and statistics, or something like it.

Chilling stat number three: Chris Gardocki and Clint Kriewaldt were largely responsible for keeping the Steelers in this game. Kriewaldt has made himself invaluable on punt and kick coverage. He hustles, he swarms, he wraps up, he runs down, and he rarely gets flagged. Go you crazy Division III boy, go. Gardocki launched eight punts on the night, averaging 44.8 yards per punt, and pinning five of them inside the 20 yard line. Now, I never want to see Gardocki eight times in one night. Nothing personal, but I don't pay my cable bill to see the freaking punter. That being said, I was one of those idiot fans who thought the Steelers could save themselves a few bucks by getting rid of Gardocki and keeping that other punter. [He made such an impression that I don't even remember his name.] I was so wrong.

In the meantime, the debate rages over whether or not Cowher should have started Ben or continued with Ben. I just love the level of reporting at ESPN. Michele Tafoya reported that Ben had a fever of 104. Hell, I can't even operate the tv remote control with a fever like that, let alone audible, check down and hit an open man. Not that Ben was doing much of that on Monday, but still, the point is, if he had a fever of 104, shouldn't he have been hospitalized? The fever, if you didn’t hear Coach Cowher’s press conference was actually 100.4, not 104. Bill played it right. His starting QB was cleared medically and was ready to go. We're not talking about David Woodley or Bubby Brister here. We're talking about Ben Roethlisberger. If he’s healthy, he plays. Period.

The lone bright light of ESPN’s coverage was Tony Kornheiser calling Norman Theesman on his flip-flopping. He also made an observation after the Steelers were flagged for hitting Leftwich low. "You can’t hit the quarterback high. You can’t hit the quarterback low. You just can’t hit the quarterback." Maybe Lambert was right and we should just put them in skirts. Little pink bubble skirts.

Looking back over my notes one last time, I realize that I wrote the same thing multiple times along the lines of, "Wow. This Jax front seven is really, really good. I didn’t know they were this good." I’ve been a fan of big-head Byron since his days at Marshall, but I have to admit, this whole Jacksonville team impressed me. They played smart and mistake free. Defensively, there were no missed or sloppy tackles -- if they had an angle on a Steeler, he went down. Of course, if they meet in again the playoffs, I expect a different outcome, but a very similar game.

In the meantime, I’m going to take a nap. Somebody wake me up for in time for the Cincy game on Sunday, okay?

Nurse photo by Kathleen Cei, New Haven, Conn.

Nurse: Dish's friend Chris of New Haven, Conn. who has no idea we did this to her. Yet.

We came, we saw, we drank

Pittsburgh Pants Party proper.

Photos by Patrick Kent

It was a lovely Saturday evening, the 16th day of September. Forgoing the pleasant weather, a handful of Pittsburgh-area Deadspinners congregated in the dank recesses of 222 Bar a couple hours before gametime. Moonshine Mike, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette scribe Diana Nelson-Jones (both pictured left), a guy in a Clinton Portis t-shirt and Pirates cap, Pat in a "Pittsburgh Baseball: Rebuilding since 1992" t-shirt, That Guy, Jewdago, Sarcastro, Mrs. Sarcastro, a fellow in a Pirates away jersey and Sarcastro's mom and dad braved the depredations of the triple deuce and began to get sauced. Deadspin overlord Will Leitch considered coming as well, but opted to go to Cincinnati to plan for his upcoming wedding and monitor the progress of race relations in the Queen City. His absence was made up for with a photo of Will displayed on a stick. More or less the same thing, right?

Sarcastro's mom was afraid to drink from the tavern's glassware, so she tippled a Smirnoff Ice. Other beers consumed were Iron City, IC Light and Yuengling (all fine Pennsylvania products). Jewdago mostly drank Bud. Sarcastro didn't like that. It seems that it might have been the second inning by the time the Deadspin and friends crew entered majestic PNC park, having remained in the 222 for a round after the first pitch. Priorities.

Inside, the group met Sarcastro family friend Tricia, landed a coveted SRO spot on the left field rotunda and settled in for the contest. And more beer. And cheese fries. And Quick-it Chicken. And pizza. And more beer. A young fellow in a Olerud jersey was asked why he wasn't wearing a batting helmet. Jason Bay was serenaded with O, Canada!

It is agreed that much more happened, but such events are lost in a fog of beer. Word is, the Pirates won 3-2. Hooray! Here are some photos by Patrick Kent.

Deadspin Pants Party in Pittsburgh update

Pregame booze event set; most other stuff up in air.

OK, we know this much. Deadspinners shall meet around 5 p.m. Saturday, Sept. 16 at 222 Bar, conveniently located at 222 Federal Street, across and up the way from Spring Hill Suites. Thanks to it being Jack Wilson bobblehead night—and anticipating decent weather—it was impossible to block out a section of seats. The plan is this: To meet at the bar, drink relentlessly, enter PNC and hang about on the rotunda en Deadspinmasse. Drop a note to editor@pittsburghdish.com with any trials, tribulations vexations.

Thanks. And Hooray, bear!

P.S.: If anyone's heading to the Pitt/Michigan State game, let me know. I'll be there as well.

Joe/Sarcastro