Keyboard Quarterbacks

By Mark La Monica

Looks like Virginia Tech won the readers' hearts and our poll to pick the team I should root for this season. Hokies friend Big Cat (of Campus Confidential fame) will be happy.

By Mark La Monica

You need to get your patoots out to the U.S. Open, stat! Pony up the scratch and go. No excuses. You've only got a week or so left to experience the most unique sporting event in the New York area.

Even if you hate tennis more the Democrats hate that President What's His Name?, go to the Open. You won't regret it.

To be clear, we're not claiming the U.S. Open is better than playoff football or Yankees-Red Sox or Islanders-Rangers. Rather, we're claiming it's a one-of-a-kind event that is awesome to check out at least once in your New York area living lifetime.

Let's compare and contrast for a moment:

U.S. Open: You buy one ticket and can go to any match at that session.
Other sports: One ticket, one game.

U.S. Open: You have easy re-admission to the main stadium.
Other sports: Yeah, good luck talking your way past the dude with the security blazer, cattle prod and mustache.

U.S. Open: Chicken fingers and fries . . . and crepes!
Other sports: No crepes!

U.S. Open: A pavilion to walk around and still be able to watch the matches on a big screen.
Other sports: You leave, you better hope the reception on your 13-inch TV in the back of your van is still clear.

U.S. Open: 20,000 people at a New York sporting event staying calm and quiet.
Other sports: Restaurant friend Rob passed on season tickets this season because who sat behind him were two steps beyond pure trash.

U.S. Open: The people cheer for both players.
Other sports: Yeah, just go ahead and try striking out with runners on second and third, two out and your team down by 1.

As for the pricing on materials, sure it's up there. But what sporting event (except for high school football) doesn't cost a few smackeroos?

Yet, $4.50 for a hot dog is totally reasonable. However, $4.75 for a snapple, yeah, not so much.

Once inside Arthur Ashe Stadium for a night match, you've reached the mecca of the U.S. Open. On any night, there's a chance to see an epic match like the the McEnroe-Connors matches of yesteryear or the Agassi-Blake match from last year.

These were amazing tennis matches that had everyone -- non-sports people included -- talking the next day. It's what we've come to expect -- and anticipate -- from the U.S. Open.

Energy fills the stadium at night. The proverbial quiet buzz. Thousands of people sit quietly and respect the game and its players.

They inch closer with each volley and return. Closer and closer, like a pot of water approaching its boiling point, until finally, a player wins the point. The crowd erupts in adulation. The water has been boiled.

As the games and sets go on, the crowd roots for the games and sets to keep going. No one wants a winner declared, at least not until they've been fully entertained with insane rallies, 8-deuce games, overhead lobs, the chasing down of overhead lobs and a crazy hit-the-tape-and-roll-along-the-net shot. It's not unlike the gladiators in the Roman Colosseum, just without the death and violence.

There's nothing quite like the U.S. Open. Now, please, go buy tickets and enjoy the show.

By Mark La Monica

Most first-round matchups in major tennis tournaments are overwhelmingly one-sided.

The Venus Williams-Kira Nagy match on the first night of this year's U.S. Open was a bit different, if only for the fact that it was more one-sided than a No. 1 vs. No. 16 game in March Madness.

This was Pros. vs Joes without the marketing and energy drinks. This was Ivan Drago vs. Apollo Creed without "Living in America."

This first-round match was about as fair as Jessica Biel being as hot as she is.

Nagy served in laser disc. Venus returned in DVD. Nagy played in 8-track. Venus played in iPod.

At one point, with Nagy trailing 0-5, the broadcast team led by John McEnroe, was basically rooting for her to win one game.

How Nagy managed to win three games in the 6-2, 6-1 drubbing is nearly unexplainable. There were unconfirmed reports that Venus was using her hands instead of a racket in two of those games and wasn't even on the court for the third game.

By Mark La Monica

With the college football season just a few days away, it's time to write what I wanted to write on Oct. 14, 2006.

I'm done with the Miami Hurricanes.

First, an explainer. Growing up in New York, there is no one college football team to root for, no home team that you're born into rooting for each week. Back in the day, the networks tried to make Syracuse that team. It didn't work.

So, us New York folks have the rare opportunity to hand-pick the team we throw our allegiance behind. For me, that team was Miami. I enjoyed their swagger and their bravado, from the army fatigues at the 1987 Fiesta Bowl to Catholics vs. Convicts, from the "We're better than you and we know it" to the "We're better than you and you know it" attitude.

I always enjoy a little brashness in my athletes. I always enjoyed the Miami Hurricanes, even the Kellen Winslow II "I'm a soldier" rant. Oh sure, it was stupid, but it was brash. And amusing.

But after the infamous helmet-swinging, cleat-stomping "You don't come into the O.B." riot on the field last season in a game against FIU, I have officially downgraded the Miami Hurricanes to a team not worth rooting for anymore.

It didn't seem fair to pile on the parade the day after that brawl happened. Let everyone else react to it then, and then we'll talk about it later on with calmer heads and the ability to judge things rationally.

So, I waited. Until today. And still the sentiment remains the same: Bye, bye Hurricanes.

Now I'm left without a team to follow this season. Which brings me to this: Help me pick a team to follow this season.

I've narrowed the field down to 7 teams I could conceivably bring myself to support this season, and it's up to you to choose. Below are those teams, in no particular order, with some pros and cons. Then, vote in the poll and pick my team for 2007. (Poll closes Friday at 6 p.m.)

1) USC
Pro: They're good and exciting to watch.
Con: Little room left on the bandwagon for the No. 1-ranked team.

2) Michigan
Pro: Mike Hart, Mario Manningham, Chad Henne.
Con: Lloyd Carr.

3) Virginia Tech
Pro: They're America's team this season and Big Cat's team every season.
Con: No con allowed this season.

4) Rutgers
Pro: They're somewhat local and this season is like "Rocky II" for the Scarlet Knights.
Con: They're from Jersey.

5) Florida
Pro: Urban Meyer is a creative offensive mind. Percy Harvin is crazy to watch.
Con: Yeah, defending champs, way to go on a limb.

6) Arkansas
Pro: Darren McFadden
Con: There are 21 other starters not named Darren McFadden.

7) Cornell
Pro: My alma mater.
Con: It's the Ivy League

By Mark La Monica

It's been 41 minutes since I turned the television off and I still can't figure out which event of the evening has me more furious at myself.

The events of perplexity:

- ESPN dedicated 90 minutes of its 12 hours of daily non-SportsCenter programming to a fantasy football draft involving 6 ESPN personalities, one NFL player and one actor.

- ESPN had analysts for this.

- I watched some of it.

- I was overheard by myself saying things such as "Now that's a stupid pick!" and "Geez, why doesn't Michael Smith know to take running backs first if you want to win?"

There were unconfirmed reports that when the program ended, I threw myself out the second-story window of my place and into an industrial-strength wood chipper.

In the latest attempt to prove they can do whatever they want and we're powerless to stop them, ESPN honchos decided to smack us in the face with a fantasy football draft. They even went so far as to allow the people to talk trash to each other about their picks. The only thing that kept this from being completely accurate was the lack of technological glitches that always arise when eight fantasy teams are in eight different places for their draft. That, and no one was wearing pajamas or was in their mother's basement.

What happened, ESPN? Were there no more outbracket rounds from the 2001 World Series of Poker to air? Surely, you could have squeezed one more SportsCenter out of John Anderson and Stuart Scott. Or maybe even a "Who's Now?" recap.

Seriously, why did I watch even a minute of this? I'm canceling my cable once "Entourage" ends.

P.S. Sean Salisbury drafted Jon Kitna in the fourth round. That would explain most of the decision he made on the field during his playing days.

By Karen Bailis

Having grown up a Phillies/Eagles/Sixers fan, I’m used to being disappointed in the waning days of a season. Sometimes the teams are even thoughtful enough to save me from the excruciating season-ending swoon, and they start sucking right off the bat – or the tip, in the case of the Sixers.

And so it has been with the only home team I can bring myself to root for in my adopted city – the Liberty.

In the first few seasons of the WNBA, they were among the elite, even putting together the premier rivalry in the league with four-time champs the Houston Comets. But they’ve always faltered when it counted. At first, it was endearing. They were the scrappy overachievers who kept going deep into the playoffs – and coming up short – without a real star.

Lately, if they’ve made the playoffs, they’ve exited in the first round or in the conference finals. Last season, they were injured and awful and missed the playoffs.

This season, the new-look Liberty – sans Becky Hammon -- opened 5-0 when everyone thought they’d stink up the joint. They didn’t disappoint. They have stunk up the joint in several ugly losses. They’ve also looked stellar on occasion, with wins over defending champ Detroit and powerhouse Sacramento.

Now, they’re struggling to grab that final playoff spot in the Eastern Conference. I feel a Philadelphia moment coming on, and I want it to hurry up and get here.

Put us out of our misery. Just roll over and die. Let this tortuous season come to a merciful end. No more end-of-season drama and heroics. Go ahead, miss the playoffs. The team – and the fans – will be better off.

See, if the Liberty miss the playoffs, they get a better shot in the draft lottery. Next year’s prize? Tennessee’s Candace Parker. Even if they don’t get the No. 1 pick, next year’s draft is plenty deep.

What do the Liberty get if they make the playoffs? Detroit.

Sure, the Liberty split the season series with the defending champs and played them tough in three of the four games. But Detroit has won two championships. The Liberty, zip. The Shock are battle-tested. The Liberty, young and often tentative. Detroit has five go-to players if center Cheryl Ford returns to the lineup healthy. If she doesn’t, they have 6-8 center Katie Feenstra. The Liberty’s tallest player is 6-5 rookie Jessica Davenport, who’s had an up-and-down season. Even Detroit’s first player off the bench, Plenette Pierson, is an offensive threat and in the running for sixth player of the year. The Liberty’s first player off the bench, usually Ashley Battle, is known for her defense.

I don’t like the Liberty’s chances. So, if they make the playoffs, they exit in the first round.

What does that get them? Some pride, maybe, and the ability to stick out their tongues at the pundits who picked them to finish last. And?

Yeah, that’s it.

If they miss the playoffs, they still don’t finish last. Chicago gets that distinction.

And, if they miss the playoffs, they get a better shot at Parker. Or her NCAA champion teammates Nicky Anosike, a center from Staten Island, guard Alexis Hornbuckle or even pint-sized point guard Shannon Bobbitt, an NYC playground legend; LSU’s 6-6 center Sylvia Fowles, UNC’s 6-1 forward Erlana Larkins, Rutgers guards Matee Ajavon and Essence Carson, Maryland twin towers Crystal Langhorne and Laura Harper, Stanford’s Candice Wiggins or Connecticut’s Charde Houston. I could go on.

Yes, the next draft might be the deepest yet. That’s what should be in the Liberty’s sights.

By Mark La Monica

Eric Gagne as a Red Sock:

5 games
4 innings
10 hits
7 earned runs

Keep it up, kid. We're loving your work down here in New York.

By Mark La Monica

Hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of people will write in their newspaper game stories and columns, or on their Web sites or blogs, about Barry Bonds and his 756th career home run, hit moments before midnight (EDT) on Tuesday, Aug. 7, 2007 off Nationals starter Mike Bacsik.

Very few of those written pieces outside the Bay Area, be it by professional journalists or civilians, will say something this effect: I am happy for Barry Bonds. (I am in New York, by the way.)

That is correct.

I am happy for Barry Bonds. Props to the San Francisco slugger for reaching a place no other American has even reached. That must be an incredible feeling. To be the sole holder of what just may be the greatest record in American sports. Bold.

In past writings, I've supported Barry Bonds through all the steroid and performance-enhancing drug allegations. Did he do it knowingly? Maybe. Maybe not. "Knowingly" being the keyword here, since he admitted ingesting stuff to a grand jury, according to leaked testimony.

I read "Game of Shadows." It's rather damning. But to pull a Bud Selig and turn my back on Bonds now wouldn't be fair. Not without more concrete proof. Plus, let's not forget that using performance-enhancing drugs was not against the rules of baseball until a few seasons ago.

The man is a great player. Always has been. A guaranteed Hall of Famer well before that bottle of andro was found in Mark McGwire's locker in 1998 and set off an amazing chain reaction across baseball. He could do it all on the baseball field, unlike any other player of his generation -- and most other generations. There is no denying his talent.

He's a polarizing figure, no doubt. A man capable of charming you with his personality and smile. A man capable of making you cringe with some of the reports about his actions in the clubhouse. Which is true? We don't know. Probably both.

When two reporters at the postgame press conference asked questions about "tainted" records and what would Bonds say to Greg Anderson if he were here, Bonds deftly worked around them. As well he should have.

This was not a night to kill Bonds. Hasn't that been done every day for the past three years already? And most likely the next three? What did they expect him to say? "Uh, yeah, I took roids and thankfully Greg Anderson hasn't said anything about it."

Those questions don't need to be asked. They've been asked 400 times day for the past three years. You're not going to get a juicy soundbyte out of that, or a good quote to stick in the paper, so don't waste the time. Or phrase the question to be less transparent.

Or, just give the man the credit he deserves for being an amazing ballplayer. No one has swung a bat and connected for a home run more times than Bonds.

What Bonds did or did not do, we'll never know. Ain't like he was going to touch home plate, hug his family, grab the mike and say, "Gotcha, suckas! I'm more juiced than Tropicana!"

But, if you can remove yourself from the groupthink mentality surrounding Bonds' presumed guilt -- clearly, Bug Selig doesn't have the moral strength to think for himself -- you will see that Bonds is among the five best baseball players ever. Think about all the players you've seen play in your lifetime. Then think about all the players your father has seen in his lifetime. Then think about all the players your grandfather has seen in his lifetime.

And Bonds is among the five best. And now he's the best home run hitter of all-time. That didn't happen solely because he may or may not have altered his physique through unnatural chemical means. Alex Sanchez was the first to come up dirty in MLB testing. How many career home runs does he have? Six! Matt Lawton? He hit 138 career bombs.

Neifi Perez is one suspension shy of qualifying as a Chris Rock's stunt double for "New Jack City." Yeah, he was hitting .172 when he got booted again.

Of course, there's the Rafael Palmeiro scenario, which is so muddy a water that no one knows what numbers to believe.

I stood and cheered for Bonds at Shea Stadium last season when everyone else booed. In the end, I may be proven wrong, but at least I had the courage to not jump on the Bash Barry Bandwagon just because everyone else already had a ticket to ride.

So, props to Bonds on hitting No. 756. And props on No. 757, 758 and however many he hits, provided George Mitchell's investigation proves as ineffective as it appears to be right now.

By Mark La Monica

Hey there, Red Sox Nation. If you take a look at the MLB standings today, you might notice that you're in first place in the AL East.

You might then notice that your lead is down to six games. A month ago, that lead was 9.5 games.

Chip, chip, chip.

Those pesky Yankees are methodically working their way toward the top of those standings. At 19-7 since the All-Star break, the Yanks have the best record in baseball. I'm just saying.

Is it just a matter of time before the Yankees take over first place? Maybe. Maybe not. But at least we've got ourselves a race. And it's going to be fun to watch the Nation start to squirm a little bit when the Yanks get to within four games of Boston before that three-game series at the Stadium Aug. 28-30.

Who knows, maybe that Sept. 14-16 series in Fenway will be irrelevant by then. Should that happen, it won't be just the Bronx that is burning.

An early prediction: Melky "Bleeping" Cabrera.

By Adam Abramson

Bud Selig and I have had similar expressions.

When Barry Bonds launched No. 755 into the San Diego stands, Selig was among the last to stand in the stadium. When he was motioned to rise, he then stood there the same way I did after seeing a local high school perform "The Nutcraker."

I guess I'll call it the "Huh? It's over? Oh, I'll stand" response. I actually think I clapped when the kids took a bow, though.

Selig's lukewarm attitude has been embarrassing. He would have benefited greater by choosing a definitive stance on Bonds breaking the record -- whether for or against it.

But he's teetered on the line of "Innocent until proven guilty" and "hands in the pocket when it's crunch time." Now they say he'll miss the next three games in San Francisco. If you're there for 755, you have to be there for 756. When's the last time you saw footage of Henry Aaron hitting No. 714? I don't know that I've ever seen that. Only 715.

This whole situation has furthered my impression of Selig as a big dumb animal.

By Mark La Monica

Even at a blackjack table in Connecticut, life comes to down to Yankees vs. Red Sox.

Heading up to Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods this past Saturday because, as it turned out, i owed the blackjack tables a few hundred bucks, I read the baseball standings in the newspaper.

The Yankees trailed the Red Sox by 7.5 games, but Friday night's Boston-Seattle game ended too late to appear in the edition. And since I basically rolled out of bed, maxed out my daily ATM limit and hopped in the car, I had no time to check the Internet or SportsCenter for a Red Sox score.

Did they win? I didn't know. Did they lose? I didn't know.

I gave up the quest for knowledge and focused on the task at hand: how to lose money at a blackjack table and not get mad about it. No easy feat.

I sat down at a $15 table at Mohegan Sun, next to a guy in Red Sox hat. Next to him was some dude in a Patriots jersey. The perfect combo for a New York sports guy. I should have walked away right there, but I won $67.50 in about 45 seconds, so I figured I'd press my luck. No whammies, please.

The guy in the Red Sox hat can best be summed up as follows: If Aguado the police detective from "Ace Ventura" had a twin brother, this was him.

He'd play one hand, then three hands, then two hands, then three hands, then one hand, then two hands. That's a strict no-no for true blackjackers. Consistent play is as important as intelligent play.

He varied his monetary levels each time, too, $20 here, $40 there. That's fine. It's his money. Let him do as he wishes in that regard.

After 30 minutes and $25 in profit, I colored in. Had to get moving before my ride left for Foxwoods and left me with the New England super fans. The guy in the Red Sox hat had just decided to play three $30 hands at once, after randomly putting a random number of chips in a random number of betting circles on the blackjack table.

And since he didn't see me stop playing, he got mad at me.

"You're gonna sit this one out?" he said.

"I'm done, guy," I said.

"Oh, you gotta tell us when you're gonna do something like that?" he boasts with a hint or four of anger.

Who is this guy to tell me how to play blackjack when he's playing with the strategy of former umpire union chief Richie "Let's all Resign" Phillips? I mean, really.

"I told the dealer," I responded.

"Well, I didn't hear you. I just upped my bet."

"Well, what do you want me to do? You've been betting crazy since I got here."

"You gotta tell us when you do something like that."

He's growing agitated. I still don't know if the Red Sox lost on Friday.

"Hey, did the Red Sox win last night?" I asked him.

"No."

"Good, now the Yanks are only seven games back. Have a nice day."