The Eagles staged their first big minicamp of the year this week, and most eyes are on new coach Chip Kelly, the multi-pronged quarterback competition, the integration of the club's many rookies and free agents, and the sad, sad end of Taco Tuesday.
 
 
The minicamp, though, would've been much more interesting if a certain free agent punter had been invited. Chris Kluwe was recently released by the Minnesota Vikings, and for a lot of reasons, I think the Eagles should sign him.
In the coming days and weeks, as new Sixers GM Sam Hinkie and his advanced metrics approach to basketball are celebrated, remember the sage words of an NBA executive I talked to on Friday:
 
 
“This is ‘Moneyball,’ and ‘Moneyball hasn’t won a playoff series yet,” he says.
 
 
What about that 2009 first-round triumph over Portland?
 
 
“That wasn’t Moneyball,” the exec says, dismissively. “That was Yao Ming, who was a transcendent player.”

Well, at least Daniel Snyder never owned Chink’s Steaks.

 

Chink’s, you’ll remember, is the northeast Philly steak shop that changed its name to Joe’s Steaks + Soda Shop a couple of months ago, after years of protests that the name was insensitive to Asian-Americans. Shop owner Joe Groh wanted to expand his business, and he did—and he made the right decision, it appears: The shop just made Zagat’s list of Top 10 Philly “guilty pleasures” in part because the name change meant customers didn’t have to feel too guilty. Changing the name to reflect 21st-century sensibilities, it seems, was a smart move by Groh.

 
 
Last Christmas Eve, I heard something truly shocking on WIP. Howard Eskin was on the air, which itself was no surprise. Though most top-shelf sports talkers take off for the holidays, Howard is a different breed; give him a mic and he’ll do a live remote from a funeral on New Year’s Eve in a hurricane. On this occasion, he wasn’t fawning over Andy Reid or ripping the Sixers front office a new one. He was co-hosting with his son, Spike, who broke some jaw-dropping news. His old man’s favorite holiday was Christmas, and he loves singing carols.
When a baseball team opens the season with a stumble and a cough, as the Phillies have done in 2013, there is a temptation to blame the manager. But when it appears as if that stagger has little chance of morphing into a full gallop, it can’t possibly be the skipper’s fault. In the case of the home nine, it most certainly isn’t.
I don't have much interest in running the Broad Street Run. Maybe this makes me a bad Philadelphia runner. I hit the pavement four or five times a week, but I just don't like racing that much. I remember my career as a mildly successful high school runner fondly, though, and I know how important those cheers can be. Even the sight of a lone spectator on the course just watching was a pick-me-up. I can't be the only vain one who picked up the pace just to not look bad, even in front of a stranger. That's why, every first Sunday in May since I moved downtown, I've hoofed it over to Broad Street to cheer on runners.
 
 
Spectators' cheers help runners' finish the race. After the bombings at the Boston marathon, runners expressed dismay that spectators were injured. "It's such a tragedy for the people that supported us," 10-time Boston finisher Josie Magee told USA Today.
Monday morning, NBA center Jason Collins came out of the closet in a Sports Illustrated cover story, making him the first openly gay male athlete in major U.S. sports history. The writer of the piece is 61-year-old Franz Lidz, who has written for Philly Mag and lives among roosters and llamas on a farm in Landenberg, Pennsylvania, 40 miles southwest of Philadelphia. I called him at home yesterday.
 
 
Collins' agent Arn Tellem essentially pitched you the story.
 
He was hinting about it earlier, but never formally asked me. We talk all the time—and he was just throwing out this hypothetical, that one of his athletes was gay. He didn't name the sport, didn't name the player I would be interviewing. He asked me if I'd be interesting in writing it. I said sure.
Thank God for weekends. If there weren’t weekends, my house would never get clean. I’d never get to the post office. And I’d never get to catch up with the Wall Street Journal, a.k.a. the paper of record for White People’s Problems. Friday's Journal brought a shining example in the form of a long story, in the Fashion section, called “Is It Tee Time, or Martini Time?” Because, uh, for the Wall Street Journal, those are the only two choices, I guess?
After spending three days letting the NFL Draft wash over me, one thing is pretty clear: The Eagles are going to win the Super Bowl.

Chris Lehmann has the right idea, but he’s going about it the wrong way.

 

The good idea? It’s time to get Philly’s major pro teams—the Eagles, the Phillies, the Flyers, and the 76ers—to pitch in and help fund the city’s financially drowning school district. The problem? Lehmann, founding principal of the Science Leadership Academy, is asking nicely, using a petition at Change.org.

The NFL draft is a bore. I remember it used to be fun, when I was a kid. The TV production was slightly amateurish; it had the feel of an event only die-hards cared about. I'd sit in front of the TV watching ESPN, slogging through a few early picks—I remember wanting the Eagles to trade up to get Ki-Jana Carter one year—anxiously awaiting to see how the Eagles would screw up their first round selection.
 
 
I don't know if the draft was every only for die-hards, but it's become an overproduced, overexposed slog for me. Somehow by trying to build it up ESPN and NFL Network have made it less interesting for me. And the hype pre-draft is unbearable. The guys at Birds 24/7 (and lots of other beat writers) have done a great job compiling Eagles draft rumors the last few months, but, my God, I want it to be over.
The year is 2024. Some swimmer (who's, like, eight years old now) has become America's latest Olympic hero. Five gymnasts (who are five now) brought home another gold for Team USA. Anthony Davis—this year's likely NBA Rookie of the Year—has led America to another basketball gold medal. (Since this is a fantasy, let's say the coach is Allen Iverson.) And there's a young kid from Philadelphia, mid-twenties. He's just a teen right now, but in 2024 he is America's next great distance running hope. On the final day of the Olympics, in the games' signature event, he's going down Broad Street, breaking away from the Kenyans and Ethiopians and surging into the lead. The crowd gets louder as he enters the Olympic Stadium. The track heads in the audience are going bonkers as one of our very own is about to become the first American to win the marathon since Frank Shorter in 1972. As he crosses the line ...
Even though Eagles GM Howie Roseman is treating the revelation of exactly who will have final say on the team’s draft picks later this week as if it were Coca-Cola’s secret formula, there is an undeniable opportunity awaiting him. At a time when all four of the city’s professional sports teams are floundering, largely because of questionable—or, in the Sixers’ case, outright irresponsible—personnel decisions, Roseman can move to the top of the management heap by assembling a crop of draft choices capable of helping the Eagles begin their rise out of the NFL morass.
I must admit, I was pretty intimidated. I was in hockey's mecca, home of the team with all the accolades: 24 Stanley Cups, 61 Hall of Famers, 17 retired numbers. The city that rioted after Rocket Richard's suspension. Even the team's name — Les Canadiens de Montréal — sounded weirdly intimidating in French. I'm a Philadelphian who barely speaks English correctly. A few days in Montreal and I still had no idea what was going on half the time, and everyone I met pronounced "Dan" with a soft-a. I was on another planet.
Here’s a little history lesson for everybody hoping that Doc Halladay’s 2-1 mastering of the fetid Marlins is an indication that he will spend the rest of the year mowing down NL hitters as he dispatched Miami’s minor-league outfit masquerading as a big-league club.
There's a new movie coming out this week that paints a rather unflattering picture of Philadelphia and its sports culture. And it goes much farther back, and much deeper, than fans booing Santa Claus or Michael Irvin.
In its treacly ads that have been airing incessantly throughout the men’s basketball tournament, the NC2A has tried to convince unsuspecting sports fans that it is the very wind that lifts its athletes to great heights on the fields of competition and in their first forays into the real world. We see hopeful job applicants supported by supportive school mascots. Young scientists receive encouragement from cheerleaders. Brass bands celebrate students’ accomplishments. Behind it all is the NC2A, an omnipresent support mechanism.
[UPDATE 11 a.m. 4/3/13: Rutgers announced they were firing Mike Rice a few hours after this post published.]
 
 
I know nothing about college sports—I should say that up front. I went to a Tier III school and even there, the closest I came to playing anything was when I was asked to join the rowing team because they needed a midget type as coxswain. I like basketball but I don't pay attention until I fill out a March Madness bracket, which for me is kind of like making a big Z out of the dots on the SAT answer sheet. I'm pretty clueless.
Phillies fans have a lot of options when following the team. The media sources come in flavors ranging from official to broadsheet to tabloid to TV station to various blogs to whimsical. But, thanks to an exclusive TV contract, when we watch the Phillies, we all watch the same channel.
 
 
This means we all see the same commercials.
Aside from the miracle runs by Florida Golf Coast University and Philly's own La Salle Explorers, this year's NCAA mens' basketball tournament had been relatively uneventful- that is, until Sunday night, when a national television audience witnessed one of the most horrific and devastating injuries in the history of televised sports.