If we really want to drive the progress of our national team and national league, we need to seriously restructure the systems we have in place for the development of players. Ultimately, even though its becoming a timeworn phrase, it all comes down to youth development. For a while, statistics about increasing AYSO participation and higher TV ratings were displayed as signs of success, but we need to set the bar higher than that. The pathway from schoolboy player to elite professional is too inefficient within our current system.

In order to make changes in our development framework, we should look towards the nations that are most successful in this aspect. As a perfect example, and one that is well-known within the soccer world, consider the Netherlands. This is a country twice the size of New Jersey, home to only 16 million citizens, and yet it continuously produces many of the superstars in the elite leagues across Europe.

The famed youth development programs in this country are the key to their success. Boys are identified by scouts of professional clubs at a very young age (as young as 5 or 6 sometimes), offered spots at academies at no cost to their family, and train with highly-qualified coaches in excellent facilities for their entire career. In comparison, a star US soccer player is likely to be coached by volunteers until he enters high school, play in teams not of his peers but of mostly inferior talent, and then spend 4 of his most critical development years in NCAA competition with a very short playing season.

There are, of course, cultural differences to consider. Many Americans would hesitate at the thought of putting a 5-year-old in the hands of a professional ball club, and with good reason. There is certainly a danger of exploitation lurking if such a program is not well implemented. But in reality, kids in the Dutch academies are very well off because the club wants to invest in them for the future. That means they are not overworked for fear of injury, they are provided the best equipment and supervision, and have private tutors for schoolwork.

However, the bigger obstacle to overcome in America is the ideal of the student-athlete. Almost all of our youth development infrastructure, in all sports, is tied to academic education. This fact is so deeply embedded in our nation’s history, with some of the oldest rivalries in the country existing between universities, that we scarcely are aware of the alternative. There are certainly merits to our system, with the goal of cultivating the intellect of a person along with his or her athletic prowess, but it has serious limitations as well. Ultimately, it comes down to our collective judgement as a nation, and what we decide is best for our young athletes. If nothing changes though, I wouldn’t put much money on us reaching the World Cup finals in my lifetime.

For much more on this subject, read this excellent NY Times article by Michael Sokolove.

In 2009, Patrick Hruby, best known for his long-form profiles of little-known personalities throughout sports, spent months with Cambodian refugee Joe Cook, who returned to his native country in an effort to start a national baseball program. Hruby embarked on the “feel-good” story of a lifetime, but quickly realized that he had stumbled across something much more complicated.

Click here to check out the story (and the rest of Hruby’s archives) for yourself. Although it’s lengthy, it’s a must-read for baseball fans.

But before those in Bordeaux country uncork a fine vintage bottle in celebration they should consider the ramifications of their actions.

As an aside, I should make clear that I’m in staunch opposition of steroid use in professional sports. It forces athletes to weigh decisions about their future health and well-being for the sake of earning a living in the short term. But in a niche sport like cycling which has seen an unprecedented boom in viewership since Armstrong burst on the scene, not just in America but worldwide, should outing Armstrong really be seen as a victory?

American hero?

Now any foothold cycling had in America is gone. And in selling the sport to a worldwide audience, who is the cycling poster child? Alberto Contador? Doper. Floyd Landis? Cheat. Granted, I grew up in the Armstrong Era of cycling, so thus know little about who the future stars of the sport will be. But what I do know is this: the sport’s governing body will regret alienating a nation where viewership has grown steadily over the past four years following a sharp decline when Armstrong retired.

The International Cycling Union (UCI) is perhaps upon the toughest decision it has ever had to make: strip Armstrong of his seven titles and give them to the second-place finishers (many of whom are convicted or suspected dopers), or follow baseball’s model and simply slap Armstrong on the wrist and move in to the future with more stringent drug testing policies.

Considering Landis was stripped of his Tour title after being convicted of doping, the odds don’t look good for Armstrong, nor for the future of cycling altogether. Like Tiger Woods in golf, or Roger Federer/Rafa Nadal in tennis, individual sports are driven solely by the elite athletes that set the highest sporting standard. As the PGA can attest, losing a star amidst controversy is a ratings disaster, and while Armstrong is now retired, America is yet undecided on how (or if) it will view future Tours.

So the UCI should be careful, because now it’s gotten what it has wished for all along: The best clean cyclist ever, is (allegedly) no longer an American. But at what cost?

For some, it was about the past. About the legacies of Willies Mays and McCovey, about Juan Marichal’s high leg kick and freezing through an extra inning game at Candlestick Park on a Sunday afternoon in July. It was the culmination of an oft-overlooked historic tradition of great baseball in an underrated baseball town.

For others, it was true affirmation that great pitching will always beat great hitting. Anyone who saw Vlad Guerrero swing (flail) a bat during Games 4 and 5 will never argue any differently.

Some said it was fitting that a team of misfits was the only bunch who could bring a title to a city as unique as San Francisco. Who else would embrace the flamboyancy of a bullpen led by the shrunken jersey-wearing, social norm-ignoring, Chris Rose-nemesis Brian Wilson?

But for people like me who live outside the friendly confines of the bay, it’s about damn time.

As a Giants fan dragged away from the Bay and deep into Dodger territory at a young age, I grew up used to defending myself and my team. And honestly, it wasn’t so bad. Dodger fans were plentiful and not shy about their thoughts regarding my hometown. But, as a knowledgeable baseball fan, I could talk shit right back at them.

Then came October 26, 2002, the day that changed my life. Game 6 of the World Series. When the Series started, the Los Angeles basin had barely heard of the Angels. There were no Troy Glaus jersey sightings around town, no Angel flags or decals on cars, nothing. LA had been, and always will be, in a sense, a Dodger town. So, by the time the Series rolled around, Dodger fans had already checked out of baseball and into USC football.

As a 12-year-old, I had no concept of karma or comeuppance. When Dusty Baker handed Russ Ortiz the game ball after his seven shutout innings of work and a 5-0 lead, I thought nothing of it.

But then came the Rally Monkey, Scott Spiezio, Darren Erstad and Troy Glaus, and before I knew it I was sitting shellshocked in front of the TV, watching Troy Percival strike out Rich Aurilia to complete the come-from-behind 6-5 win.

I remember vividly the events of the following day, a beautiful fall Sunday, the date of my K-8 school’s fall carnival. I remember being assaulted by red-and-white, new jerseys and hats, and dastardly Rally Monkey puppets. I lasted just ten minutes before fleeing to the relative security of my parents’ car, unable to handle the constant heckling from a source I’d never before encountered. For you see, October 26th, 2002, was the day Angel fans were born, and the day my deep hibernation away from the game of baseball began.

But this team brought me back, for more than just Angel fan payback. Back to the game I love, back and more excited than ever to spend a summer afternoon in the second deck, watching the kayakers mill back and forth in the bay. For outsiders, it’s tricky to understand why a team like this would receive the kind of devotion it has from San Franciscans. But they didn’t sit through the all-business, all-ego years of Barry Bonds, years where the team-first personalities of Aurilia and J.T. Snow were lost behind Barry’s private area in the team clubhouse. They didn’t have to listen to Jeff Kent lie through his teeth about his broken wrist, claiming he had fallen out of the bed of his pickup truck while cleaning it, instead of falling off his motorcycle while doing wheelies.

The City has long backed its players unconditionally (see Bonds, Barry), but the undercurrent of frustration had reached a boiling point by the time the 2010 season began. There was no offense, the stud rookie catcher was being held in the minor leagues to decrease his arbitration value, and the left side of the infield weighed a combined 600 pounds (or so it seemed).

Then GM Brian Sabean realized that he might finally lose his job barring a successful year. And he began adding any pieces he could find as the season went on, like a frantic shopper throwing everything into his cart. Cody Ross and Pat Burrell hit in the 4th and 5th spots in the lineup on Monday night, but neither were on the opening day roster.

Now it’s time for the Giants fans to come out of the woodwork to hop on the bandwagon, just like Los Angelinos in 2002 and Bostonians in 2004.

And if there are any young Ranger fans living in San Francisco, I feel for you, I really do. There’s nothing worse than being surrounded by excited, crazy people while you’re depressed.

But chin up, at least you’ve got the Cowboys.

Too soon?

Nobody wants to see this.

No doubt El Fuego (Not El Heat. They shouldn’t wear those stupid jerseys; it isn’t even correct grammar.) was going to get a lot of attention because of the splash they made this offseason. In the few days after they became the most polarizing franchise not owned by a Steinbrenner, I tried to pass myself off as a die hard Miami Heat fan saying things like “Yo, dude I’ve been a Heat fan forever. C’mon bro, Alonzo Mourning, Brian Grant, dude c’mon.” I would make any reference to the Heat, and to the city of Miami, that I could. Eventually it got so bad that it turned into shout-outs to people like Dan Marino and [fictional character] Dexter Morgan.

Not a real person, as it turns out.

Eventually I just couldn’t do it anymore, and gave up. However, now that the season is underway, I actually do find myself rooting for the Heat. I’m not rooting for them as an actual fan; I’m a Clipper fan forever (Clipper Darrell for President). I’m not a bandwagon jumper and I won’t be rooting for the Cowboys, Red Wings, Duke, Yankees, or Man U. I’m rooting for them as a fan of sports TV and all that is good about sports media.

Everyone in the sports world is expecting the Heat to roll through the regular season and onto a NBA title. The standards set for them are incredibly high, as well they should be. Whenever you claim “WE DID IT” before the season even starts, you’re setting you’re self up for this kind of attention. And since the standard for the Heat is so high, if they do well, everything goes according to plan for the ESPN programming machine and there aren’t too many twists in the plot to talk about.

However, if the Superteam falters (like it did in Boston on opening night), we will hear nonstop coverage and see countless packages and stories about “What’s wrong with the Heat?”, “Did LeBron make the right decision?”, “Is D-Wade healthy?” etc. In fact, ESPN already has a “Heat Checkup” post on their home page. Nobody wants that. Everyone was sick of the Heat and LeBron during his “Decision” back in July. Can you imagine the amount of backlash there would be if the Heat fail this season?

It’s a double edged sword. If they win, LeBron looks like he made the right decision and got his ring. If they lose, I have to hear from Jemele Hill all season about how “these cats just ain’t getting it done.”

The most widely loved—and hated—animal since Air Bud.

All the major news organizations report that Paul died of “natural causes.” I don’t buy it. Leaving aside the fact that I’ve always found that expression somewhat useless (if I eat 10 artery-sealing McGriddle’s and have a heart attack, did I die of “natural causes”?), there are much more likely explanations for his demise.

Look, Paul antagonized every nation that he picked against, and eventually even burned his bridges in his home country by picking them to go out in the semis. That means that he pissed off Australian, Ghanaian, English, Argentine, German, and Dutch fans. That’s a scary list of countries to provoke (excluding the Australians, obviously). Hell, purely by the numbers, I wouldn’t be surprised if Paul was the most hated German since 1945.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking: “Paul didn’t make those teams lose, he just predicted them to.” Doesn’t matter. We’re talking about sports fans here, and not just any sports fans, but World Cup fans. These are quite possibly the most superstitious/irrational people on the planet (myself included). Thus, someone slipping a little somethin-somethin into poor old Paul’s tank to make sure he didn’t see the next light of day is completely within reason.

So, yes, as a Dutchman, when I read the headline today proclaiming his death, I thought, “He got his.” Then came that moment after harsh instinctive reactions in which you feel a pang of regret; except I didn’t regret my sentiment. Screw the pulpo, he made us lose. Good riddance.

Check out the pair of interviews he did with Chris Rose, one from the summer and the other from after Game 6 of the NLCS.

First, the obvious question, why is this a story? Besides the fact that a headline this funny proves that someone deep inside the ESPN corporate machine has a soul, this seems like a waste of space. Find me a defensive player who’d rather hand out daisies than lay the hurt on a wide receiver coming over the middle and I’ll show you a guy who won’t last very long as an NFL player.

But, while Harrison managed to put two Browns wide receivers out of the game yesterday, his hits still weren’t as brutal as the one laid on DeSean Jackson, who suffered a severe concussion and memory loss (Cal fans just had horrible Jahvid Best flashbacks). Here’s the video.

Second, a big thank you to the surprisingly high number of people who kept reading this day after day during our absence. Your continued support will not be in vain.

Next week will the first of Lazy Eye 2.0, less focused and more ridiculous than ever.

Here’s a preview of what’s to come.

Everyone who has played Little League (or youth sports at any level) has played with a kid who can quote his batting and fielding stats down to the third decimal point. He’s the kid who shows up to practice the first day wearing jeans (or jorts), a Sandlot hat and a dinosaur tshirt. But pitching stats? That’s a rarer breed of nerd; that’s the one who grew up to be this guy.

Everyone has played with this kid.

Between third basemen who can’t make the throw to first, outfielders throwing their hats up in the wind, and flexible strike zones, an earned run has never been scored at that level.

Look, maybe this girl is on pace to be the next Niekro, but let’s cool it for now. Does Lane Kiffin need to get a verbal commitment from a 13-year-old? Does scout.com need to rank 12-year-old point guards?

This is everything that’s wrong with sports. Well, this too.

Freddy Adu should be a lesson to everyone. Leave the kids alone.