Angelo Cataldi – Rants

The Flyers did more than defy the odds when they ousted Sidney Crosby and his pack of Pittsburgh Penguin weasels on Sunday, they righted a wrong. The good guys won. For once, virtue triumphed over evil.
And the best part was watching Crosby plummet to the ice in the first few seconds of Game 6, the victim of a check by Claude Giroux that delivered a clear message to a Pittsburgh team favored to win the Stanley Cup this year. Giroux’s wrist shot past goalie Marc-Andre Fleury seconds later punctuated the point. Not today, Penguins. Not this season.
It would be so easy to spend this entire column crowing over the many unexpected performances by these surprising Flyers – the exceptional work of seven different rookies, the clutch scoring of Danny Briere, the amazing success of the power play or the single-minded efforts of the incomparable Giroux. But I’ll leave those testimonials to writers far more suited to that sort of thing.
What I want to bask in today is the demise of a contemptible group of star players who acted like bullies – until they got a much-deserved punch in the mouth. The Penguins are exactly where they belong right now, home, their championship dream in tatters. They may have Stanley Cup talent, but they are strictly bottom-feeders when it comes to character.
If Crosby is indeed the face of the NHL these days, then the sport should find a good plastic surgeon. He is a crybaby on the ice and a brat off it. Long after the outcome of this series is forgotten, his embarrassing response when asked why he mindlessly swept Jakub Voracek’s glove down the ice in Game 3 will remain etched in our memories.
“I don’t like him,” Crosby said. “I don’t like anybody on that team.”
And then there was the classless response by James Neal to the 8-5 trouncing in Game 3, a dual cheap-shot shift that earned him a one-game suspension and the contempt of Philadelphia forever. First, he head-hunted Sean Couturier with an illegal check, and then he swung an elbow at Giroux’s cranium. The only injury, fortunately, was to Neal’s reputation.
This collection of social misfits was led by Dan Bylsma, a coach who tried to thug up a meeting between the teams just before the playoffs, to no avail. When Bylsma and his worms oozed out to a 10-3 lead in Game 4, the coach thought it would be a sweet gesture to call a timeout in the final moments. And then, even after his team was laid to rest, Bylsma said he couldn’t bring himself to wish the Flyers good luck.
Well, in the end, the Penguins all got what was coming to them, didn’t they? Crosby can go home now, a squawking jackal right to the end. Neal can find out just how sore a loser he really is. And Bylsma can call a five-month timeout until he begins screwing up another season.
The Flyers beat the Penguins. All is right with the world. The good guys won.

Charlie Manuel is many things to many people. He is charming, in a homespun country way. He is endearing, a quirky old guy just like Gramps. And he is even entertaining, with his folksy wisdom delivered in a halting style. But the truth behind his lovable veneer is hard for people to accept. He is a horrendous game manager.
In fact, I can’t recall a baseball lifer like Manuel who was worse at reacting to unique situations with creative solutions. If it’s not already in his dog-eared Managing for Dummies book, don’t expect Manuel to figure it out for himself.
The latest example of his boneheaded strategy came last week in a brutal loss to San Francisco, when the skipper kept an ancient Jim Thome up at the plate to face a tough lefthander, Javier Lopez, needing merely to make contact to give the Phillies a lead. Thome struck out – of course – and the Giants prevailed soon thereafter.
Eventually, Philadelphia is going to have to accept the reality of a deteriorating situation. Manuel may be a maestro of personalities in a clubhouse, but he is no master manipulator of personnel on the field. And his shortcomings are going to become increasingly apparent on a weak-hitting team that requires a mind in the dugout to manufacture runs.
The debate over how good a manager Manuel really is will continue long beyond his tenure here, but one issue will soon become painfully clear even to his loudest defenders. He is the wrong manager for this team, this year.

Now that they have made the playoffs (yawn), I have an ultimatum for the Sixers and their fan-friendly – but increasingly clueless – new owners. If Andre Iguodala is a member of the team next year, I will end a half century of rooting for their team. If he’s here, I’m done.
For me and many others, Iguodala has become the new Donovan McNabb, a puzzle on the court and an insult off it. There are more civil ways to say it, but they don’t capture the essence of Andre Iguodala. He is a loser. It’s that simple. He is terrible in the closing moments of a tight game, and he is even worse when required to explain his latest failure after it.
Last week, in the midst of a hideous run highlighted by a 3-17 record in games decided by seven or fewer points, Iguodala took some time out to praise himself. He said he was especially impressed by his recent shooting, and by his overall play. The Sixers had lost three of the previous four games when he issued this tone-deaf testimonial.
Well, I’ve had enough of him. I need the new owners to stop talking about changing the culture of the team and start doing it. CEO Adam Aron actually went on Twitter the other day and asked fans what roster moves they would recommend. Maybe Aron should ask his do-nothing president, Rod Thorn, that question.
I have loved the Sixers since the days of the greatest player ever, Wilt Chamberlain. I have embraced Dr. J and Allen Iverson, just as I have endured 9-73 and Eddie Jordan. But this is the end of the line. It’s either Iguodala or me. I’ve had enough.

Idle thoughts . . . .
• A great man ended his extraordinary career yesterday. Brian Dawkins, at 38, announced his retirement after 16 years in the NFL. He was the ultimate Eagle, brilliant on the field and dignified off it. In a city of the harshest critics in sports, absolutely everybody loved Brian Dawkins.
• Donovan McNabb named himself to the Pro Football Hall of Fame last week. He said the “big game” is the NFL conference championship, not the Super Bowl. He also said he was better than Troy Aikman and Jim Kelly. Other than these comments, there is no evidence he is using hallucinogens.
• John Mayberry Jr. was going to be the next Jayson Werth, a talented young outfielder who just needed a chance to play every day. Well, so far the only thing he has mastered is the pop-up with runners in scoring position. The Phillies need a new talented young outfielder. Mayberry is definitely not it.
• The one thing the Phillies cannot afford right now is an injury to any of their top three starting pitchers. What’s that? Cliff Lee just went on the disabled list with an oblique injury? Uh, oh.
• Asante Samuel’s me-first tenure as an Eagle is about to end. The team awaits an offer – any offer – to unload his bloated contract and ego. The Birds can always find another decent cornerback, but who’s going to replace his locker-room presence? Hey, when is Freddie Mitchell getting out of jail?

The Flyers have gone 37 years without winning a Stanley Cup, despite some great teams and amazing players. How improbable would it be if the current collection of lovable misfits ended that drought?
Of course, a championship is still a long way away, but can’t we dream for a moment after that amazing win Sunday against the gutless Pittsburgh Penguins and their crybaby superstar Sidney Crosby? Can’t we fantasize that this team of slow starters filled with clueless rookies, a nutty goaltender and a tempestuous coach might just be the one to win it all?
The next time you hear an expert commentator predict what’s going to happen in this insane series, change the channel. Nobody predicted that the Flyers would be up 3-0 against the Cup favorites. Nobody saw the Penguins unraveling the way they have. And nobody envisioned that it would be the Flyers controlling play and winning respect.
Nothing is going according to plan right now, and that’s just fine. The playoffs are supposed to be a test of goaltending, you say? Well, Ilya Bryzgalov has a goals-against average of nearly four – and he’s undefeated. Compared to Penguins sieve Marc-Andre Fleury, Bryzgalov is the second coming of Bernie Parent. And Bryzgalov has been a model of locker-room decorum, another shocking twist.
Then there are the six Flyers who have never been to the NHL playoffs because this is their first year in the NHL. Sean Couturier, Matt Read, Braydon Schenn, Zac Rinaldo, Marc-Andre Bourdon and Eric Wellwood comprise nearly 30 percent of the post-season roster. The average age of the six is 22. Two of them aren’t old enough to drink.
All Couturier has done so far is make the MVP of the regular season, Evgeni Malkin, disappear. The kid even absorbed a cheap shot Sunday by James Neal and laughed in the thug’s face. Oh, yeah. The rookie also had a hat trick in Game 2. He will be 20 years old in December.
Schenn, 20, came here in the Mike Richards trade last summer, and the optimists predicted that someday he would compare to the former Flyer captain. But in his first year? In his first playoffs? Not a chance. And all Matt Read did was score 24 goals this season, and two more in his first three playoff games. That’s all.
What makes this Flyer team so amazing is its complete disdain for hockey convention. Good starts are imperative in the playoffs? The Flyers won the first three games after trailing 3-0, 2-0 and 1-0. Leadership is essential? Captain Chris Pronger is watching the games on his couch at home. A steady hand behind the bench is critical? Peter Laviolette was perched on a ledge two weeks ago threatening bodily harm against the Pittsburgh coaches.
No, this is no normal team, and this is definitely no normal series. Now all we can hope for, after so many years without a Stanley Cup, is for no normal ending, too.

Pat Burrell will be honored on May 15 with a final goodbye at Citizens Bank Park. I have only one question: Why?
When the Phillies announced their plans last week to sign Burrell to a one-day contract and schedule a special day for him, my first reaction was that the team is setting a terrible precedent. To me, Burrell was a disappointment in all ways but one. He did win a championship. We’re all grateful for that.
As a hitter, his legacy is the strikeout. He was known early in his career for flailing at any outside breaking ball that approached the plate. Later, he simply refused to swing at third strikes. In only nine seasons as a Phillie, he struck out 1,273 times, second most in team history. For this he gets a special day?
Yes, he put up some power numbers (257 homers and 827 RBIs), but not when they mattered most. Remember the parade, which he led with his dog Elvis? Well, that was the first time he led the team during the championship run. He hit .071 in the World Series, with no homers and one RBI. For a first-round draft pick still at the prime age of 32, shouldn’t we have expected more?
Finally, Burrell was a jerk. From the day he arrived in Clearwater, he was as aloof and fan-unfriendly as any Phillie in the past generation here. The next warm and fuzzy Pat Burrell story will be his first in Philadelphia.
Hey, I know we’re all supposed to remember the good in players at times like this, when they retire. No, thanks. May 15 will be a great day for him, but not for the many fans who know Pat Burrell for the player and person he really was.

A few weeks ago, there was widespread speculation that this could be the final season of Doug Collins’ brief reign as Sixers coach. Now many fans are not speculating anymore. They’re really hoping this is the end.
Collins is a good coach, demanding but fair, a father figure capable of appealing to the pampered brats he has adopted. In the past month, however, his commanding presence has evolved into an awkward aimlessness. During the team’s dreadful second half of the season, Collins has strategized with a dart board.
Exhibit A is Nik Vucevic, a rookie who played a grand total of three minutes in the first three games of April, and then was named the starter two days later. Exhibit B is Evan Turner, who finally emerged as a star very briefly last month before a return to the coach’s doghouse. Exhibit C is Andre Iguodala, who keeps getting the ball at key moments despite being the worst clutch player in the NBA.
Collins has lost his way with managing the fragile egos on the team, too, as he admitted last week when he said the players see him as an “ogre” now. He is so unsure of himself, he said he checks with assistants after timeouts to make certain he wasn’t too tough on the players.
The Sixers are going nowhere in the immediate future, with or without Doug Collins. Based on the past few weeks, they will be better off without him. It’s not enough anymore just to be better than Eddie Jordan.

Idle thoughts . . . .
• NBC hockey analyst Mike Milbury had his job threatened two weeks ago when he suggested that Sidney Crosby “has a bit of punk in him.” As we have all seen in the playoffs, Crosby is a whining child, a cheap-shot specialist, and yes, a punk. NBC owes Milbury an apology.
• There are reports that the Eagles are trying to move up to No. 4 to pick Ryan Tannehill of Texas A & M, a converted wide receiver who has played only 19 games at quarterback. Grooming a new, raw QB just doesn’t seem like the act of a coach fearing for his job, does it?
• The third anniversary of the passing of Harry Kalas was last Friday. No one man has ever had the impact on Philadelphia fans, in any sport, than the velvet-voiced gentleman who graced our presence for 39 magical years.
• The chants of “Freddie, Freddie, Freddie” at Citizens Bank Park are shocking, considering whom Freddie Galvis is replacing and his .222 batting average. It might be a good idea for Chase Utley to end his Arizona getaway. If I didn’t know better, I’d think his fans were cheating on him.
• In a sports world of creeps and lowlifes, there is a new king. Former Arkansas coach Bobby Petrino, 52, hired a paramour half his age, covered up a motorcycle accident, and allegedly cheated on both his wife and girlfriend with “Miss Motorcycle Mania.” Where does he get the energy?

Cole Hamels is the closest thing to a movie star on the Phillies, with his matinee-idol looks, his gorgeous TV wife and his hero status as the MVP of the 2008 World Series. So why is it becoming more and more obvious that his stellar career may not have a Hollywood ending here?
The 28-year-old left-handed pitcher was out there for the home opener Monday at Citizens Bank Park, a place he professes to love like no other ballpark, performing in front of fans unrivaled in his eyes – or so he says. Still, it was impossible to watch him without wondering if this was the beginning of his final season as a Phillie.
So far, everybody has been saying the right things, while actually doing nothing. By all accounts, there have been no significant contract talks in over a month, even as Hamels insists Philadelphia is his first choice and team officials keep saying they have the money to pay him. Meanwhile, most of the experts are predicting that the two sides will reach an agreement before Hamels is free to sign anywhere after the current season.
But as mega-deal after mega-deal has been completed with some of the top stars of the game recently, the prospect of Hamels signing here is dwindling. When Matt Cain signed a six-year, $127-million deal last week with the Giants, alarms should have been ringing throughout Philadelphia. The 10-year, $225-million Joey Votto extension in Cincinnati was even more stunning.
No one wants to say it, so I will. There’s a significant chance that Hamels is leaving at the end of the season. Despite what all the voices are saying, the logic just seems to be making a stronger case for his departure.
Cole Hamels is a West Coast kid if ever there was one. He grew up in San Diego, his parents still live there, his wife was a star on the TV show Survivor, his first two public appearances after the 2008 World Series were on The David Letterman Show and Dancing With the Stars, and, well, look at him. Does he look like one of us?
The Padres could never raise enough money to lure Hamels back, but the Dodgers are another story entirely. Magic Johnson and his partners just paid $2.15 billion for the franchise. Is anyone dumb enough to think they would balk at $175 million, or even $200 million, to bring Hamels home?
The Phillies have already cost themselves a fortune by waiting this long to lock up their most valuable commodity. They low-balled him last winter with a five-year, $85-million offer that matched Jered Weaver’s hometown-discount deal with the Angels. Now it’s going to cost them double that, at least, to keep him here.
With every day that passes, the price goes up for Cole Hamels. Whatever it takes, the Phillies have to pay it. Failure is not an option now – unless they want to witness the end of the best era of Phillies baseball ever.

Mike Milbury, an outspoken former hockey player and coach, came on my WIP radio show last week and did something extraordinary. He expressed his honest opinion on the feud between the Flyers and Penguins in a colorful and entertaining way – which just so happens to be the reason why he is such a successful broadcaster.
Within hours after advising Pittsburgh coach Dan Bylsma to “take the skirt off” and suggesting (gasp!) that Sidney Crosby “has a little punk in him,” Milbury was told to apologize or he would be fired by NBC. After a statement as generic and insincere as possible, Milbury resumed his duties, while an army of soulless suits monitored his every word.
Hey, I’m the last one to complain about a corporate world of broadcasting that had made me financially comfortable after a quarter-century of public babble, but the sublime really is becoming the ridiculous these days, isn’t it? Was NBC upset about the sexist “skirt” line or the “punk” reference, or maybe the suggestion that Crosby had suffered “35 or 36 concussions.” What was the problem, exactly?
The problem was that Milbury made someone in power angry. My best guess is that it was the Penguins, as sanctimonious a collection of sports bureaucrats as exists in sports. When the Penguins screamed at one of the upwardly mobile office politicians at NBC, it was time to flex some corporate muscle.
Ironically, two days after the Milbury controversy, Rangers coach John Tortorella called the Penguins “one of the most arrogant organizations in the league” and portrayed Crosby and star teammate Evgeni Malkin as “whiners.” The coach was fined $20,000 by the NHL for telling the truth. Because he is not a network broadcaster, he offered no bogus apology.

It took only one week for the Eagles to replace irreplaceable Jason Peters with DeMetress Bell, a young offensive tackle with a fascinating past and a promising future. For once, the Birds made a move that the city can embrace. Bravo.
Usually, it takes months (or even years) for the Eagles to acknowledge a major void on their team. Heck, it took a decade for coach Andy Reid to address his vacuum at linebacker. But this time the Birds swooped right in and plucked Bell from a bevy of suitors. He is not Peters, but he’s not bad.
Keep in mind that Bell played no high-school football at all and then missed the entire 2008 season serving as an apprentice to Peters in Buffalo. He is athletic – his biological father is Karl Malone – and, at 27, he is a perfect young student for legendary line coach Howard Mudd. What Bell lacks most right now is experience.
When I talked to him last week on WIP, Bell said he chose the Eagles because of the opportunity to work with Mudd and confide in Peters, and because Philadelphia is a long, long way from Buffalo in intensity. He wants to be challenged. Philadelphia should help there.
So what has he already learned about being an Eagle? “Everybody tells me the same thing: Win. You’ve got to win.” Sounds like he’s a fast learner.

Idle thoughts . . . .
• Take a good look at Doug Collins the next time he speaks after a Sixer loss. Coated in sweat, flustered by his slumping young players, the coach is an emotional wreck right now. He is Dick Vermeil, circa 1982. Would it surprise anyone if Collins bid a tearful goodbye after the season?
• The tapes released last week of Gregg Williams urging his players to injure opponents, at all costs, clinch it for me. The former Saints assistant should never coach again – at any level, under any circumstances. Football is a violent game, but it doesn’t need a Neanderthal like him in charge.
• Roy Halladay is the best artist on the pitching mound since Greg Maddux, but this first-inning issue is getting ridiculous, isn’t it? I know I’m nitpicking here, but how can a perfectionist like him continue to struggle with this one tiny aspect of the game. Come on, Roy. Fix it.
• If you’re bold enough to pick the Flyers over the Penguins in the playoffs that begin tomorrow, you are counting on Ilya Bryzgalov to perform well in goal, the defense to hold up despite a rash of injuries and the refs to call it fairly against Sidney Crosby and his team of whiners. Good luck.
• Philadelphia sports fans lost a great friend and a huge talent when Steve Fredericks passed away over the weekend. Fredericks did every aspect of broadcasting well, from play by play of the Sixers to pioneering the sports-talk format three decades ago. He will live on in the memory of his many, many fans.