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The worst of times?

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Updated Sunday, Oct. 4

Uh, no. When I became a for-real fulltime sports writer at the Houston Post 54 years ago today – Oct. 1, 1972 –  the Astros had yet to make the playoffs after a decade of futile losing, the Oilers were about to go 1-13 for the second season in a row and the Rockets were a half-year removed from their inaugural H-town season, when they finished 14 games under .500 and routinely played to crowds of less than 3,000 at the University of Houston’s Hofheinz Pavilion.

That spring, when I was still the sports editor of the Daily Cougar, I requested a couple of freebie tickets for a Sunday afternoon game. The PR director said I could have as many as six if I promised they would be used. I started knocking on doors in Moody Towers and was finally able to round up four others interested in joining me. One seat stayed empty.  

By comparison, I’m sure you’ll agree, a one-and-done Astros playoffs series – even if the team that beat them, the Chicago White Sox, is only three seasons removed from one in which they lost a whopping 121 games – and a second consecutive 0-3 start by the Texans hardly feels like Armageddon. The Astros didn’t belong anywhere near the postseason to begin with given their .500 record, and didn’t the 2025 Texans go 12-2 the rest of the way, then also win a playoff game for the third year in a row?

Still, our expectations have changed, haven’t they? Joe Espada, pictured above at what was probably his final post-game press conference, was in a no-win situation from the get-go after the Astros had advanced to seven consecutive American League Championship Series and three World Series under his former boss Dusty Baker. The organization’s problems run way deeper than the skipper’s inability to extract maximum production from a flawed roster, but it’s a near-certainty Joe has to go to placate the disgruntled customers.

In 2025, the home crowd watched the Astros lose their final three home games to the Seattle Mariners, effectively ending their playoff hopes. A year later, two more desultory Ls at Daikin Park ended this season. The Astros also suffered a first-round sweep in front of their fans by the Detroit Tigers in 2024. And they dared whine about why only 30,000 or so folks showed up for both of this fall’s games?

Really? Just STFU, fellas.    

As for the Texans, this was supposed to finally be their year according to respected pundits such as Connor Orr of Sports Illustrated, who predicted a 23-21 Houston Super Bowl victory over Seattle’s defending champions. I have a lot of respect and  affection for DeMeco Ryans, but some seriously suspect in-game coaching decisions combined with a pathetic running game and an underperforming defense have contributed to a season already perched on the brink.

Coincidentally, tonight’s opponent, the Dallas Cowboys, are confronting similar issues. First-year head coach Brian Schottenheimer is arguably bungling worse than Ryans, and his rookie defensive coordinator, 34-year-old Christian Parker, is taking even more heat in the Metroplex for his head-scratching decisions as Texans offensive coordinator NIck Caley is facing in H-town.

The Texans rank 26th in scoring through three games, while the Cowboys have given up more yards than all but two other teams and rank 25th in points allowed. Of course, that still represents improvement, given that Dallas had the NFL’s worst defense last season. And the Cowboys have at least won a game.

Note that only the 1992 San Diego Chargers have reached the postseason after an 0-4 start. A fourth Texans loss at home Dallas Cowboys Sunday will surely bring on way more and way louder boos than the Astros were made to endure as they staggered into the off-season.

The good times may not be over for good, but they’re definitely on hold until further notice. Anybody else ready for some hoops?

Now let’s move on to a less depressing topic. You guessed it – wine!’

Except there’s bad news on that front, too. The best among many superb ones I’ve tasted during my seven months ensconced in Haute Provence is no longer available for purchase via wine.com. I’m speaking of the Ceretto Barolo Brunate from the exceptional 2021 vintage. I had intended to have a few bottles waiting for me upon my return to H-town at the end of the month. Oh well. Read the following and weep with me . . .

From James Suckling, who scored it a 98: “Cranberries, dried herbs, underbrush, sage, minerals and violets on the nose. Very aromatic and absorbing. The palate is medium- to full-bodied with precise, linear and elegant fruit. The tannins are firm and balanced tannins, providing a compact, racy finish. Outstanding balance.”

From Robert Parker’s Wine Advocate, which scored it a 97. “A classical expression of one of the most representative vineyards in (La Morra). You get the delicate fruits associated with nebbiolo, but you also get the mint that is common to Brunate. If you walk through this vineyard in springtime, you often smell fresh mint brushing against your shoes. Brunate also has an elegant mineral signature of crushed limestone. It ages in 300-liter French oak for 12 months followed by 24 months in French oak botte and then another 12 months in bottle.”

And from the Wine Spectator, which scored it a 94: “A spicy version, whose cherry, raspberry, rose, iron and eucalyptus flavors are shaded by a hint of new oak. This is pure and solid, while the dusty tannins exert themselves on the finish. Shows excellent balance and a long, fruit-infused aftertaste.”

No wonder it sold out for what I consider a screaming bargain at $149.99. Fortunately, I still have bottles of the 2021 Ceretto Bricco Rocche (98 from Parker, 97 from Decanter and 95 from the Spectator) the 2021 Ceretto Prapó (97 from Parker) and 2021 Ceretto Bussia (95 from Parker) in storage here, awaiting consumption. Note that the Prapó can still be had for $150.99 and the Busia for $132.99 from wine.com. Things could be worse.

Also, as the former president of the board of directors, I’m tickled pink – rosé? – about what Houston’s Alliance Française chapter is doing on the wine education front. The following events, to be held at the Alliance at 427 Lovett Blvd., unless otherwise noted, are on the fall schedule and, you bet, I intend to attend every one of them save for the first:  

* Saturday, October 10, 6-8 p.m. – Bordeaux 102: Pessac-Léognan.

* Friday, October 30, 6–8 p.m. – Rosé Bash Honoring the Legacy of Steve Zimmerman at the Colombe d’Or Hotel.

* Friday, November 6, 5-7 p.m. – An Evening at Baccarat: Champagne Tasting and Private Shopping Experience.

* Thursday, November 12, 6:30-8:30 p.m. – The Perfect Pairing: French Wines for the Holidays.

* Friday, November 20, 6-8 p.m. – Beaujolais Nouveau 2026.

* Thursday, December 3, 6:30-8:30 p.m. – Crémants de France.

Ticket prices can be found at alliancehouston.org.

Cheers!  

Time flies . . .

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Fifty years ago this weekend, having just celebrated my 24th birthday, I covered my first-ever Houston Oilers game as the beat reporter for the Houston Post. Following a 10-4 season in Bum Phillips’ debut as head coach, those Oilers carried some relatively high expectations, never mind that the 10 victories in 1975 were arguably aberrant, totaling only six fewer than the franchise had accumulated over its first five seasons as a member of the National Football League.

Still, for a few weeks anyway, they looked like the real deal, first holding the Tampa Bay Buccaneers to 100 total yards and eight first downs in a 20-0 win at the Astrodome. Of course, that was also the first game ever for John McKay’s spectaculary inept expansion Bucs, who went on to become the first of only three teams since the AFL-NFL merger in 1970 to endure an oh-fer for a non-strike-shortened season.     

A week later, the Oilers went to Buffalo and held the Bills to 168 total yards – O. J. Simpson’s 16 rushes netting just 38 – in a 13-3 beat-down. Through a 4-1 start, those Oilers, with future Hall-of-Famers Elvin Bethea, Curley Culp and Roger Brazile starting on defense, were giving up 208 yards and fewer than 10 points per game. Suddenly, folks (myself included) were seriously discussing their Super Bowl prospects.    

Alas, the next nine games that fall produced only one more W and, as everyone knows only too well, no NFL team representing H-town has advanced to same to this day. The Oilers, who lost back-to-back AFC Championship Games in Pittsburgh to close out the 1978 and 1979 seasons, left for Tennessee in 1996 and, as the Titans, would lose a Super Bowl to the St. Louis Rams to end the 1999 season. The Texans, who came into existence in 2002, are 0-for-7 in Division Round games through their 24 seasons.

But now folks – including some very credible ones – see them as for-real contenders for the NFL title. Do I? At 74, I’m not holding my breath. But, sure, OK, it could happen. And, should it happen, I’ll happily celebrate and I’m guessing wine will be involved.

That so-long-in-coming party will begin with a glass of sparkling wine, preferably from Paul Déthune, the boutique producer in Ambonnay that I fortuitously discovered at an AOC tasting in March hosted by Sophie Déthune, Paul’s wife. She knew how to sell wine and she had a product that was eminently sellable.

For the moment the Déthune Cuvee “Cuvee Prestige Princesse Des Thunes” Grand Cru Extra Brut is still available at AOC Selections. Considering the Ambonnay fruit is all Grand Cru, the $102 price tag isn’t off-putting. To use a football cliché, Déthrune still outkicks its coverage.

En route from Paris to our house in Haute Provence in April, Debbie and I dropped in to see Sophie, then headed south with a 20-bottle mix. I has been a very good summer in la belle France. Merci, Paul. 

And, because man cannot live on bubbles alone, I’m almost certain to follow with a Barolo or two from AOC, which has gone in big on rising star Giulia Negri’s excellent wines – and/or wine.com, which carries a number of my longtime favorites from the Ceretto family. I’m eyeballing their 2021 Barolo Brunate and 2022 Barbaresco Classico (shown above with one of my favorite Déthunes) at $149.99 and $60.99 respectively. The former received a score of 98 from James Suckling, who gave the latter a 92. Decisions, decisions.     

Now back to sports. Let’s talk tennis, specifically the U.S. Open final on Sunday with Ben Shelton trying to become the first American man to claim any of the Grand Slam titles since Andy Roddick won at Flushing Meadow in 2003, a full generation ago.         

As you may recall, at River Oaks Country Club in 2024 the then 21-year-old Shelton became the youngest player to win the Men’s Clay Court Championship title since, yep, Roddick in 2002. Now he’s trying to again follow in Roddick’s footsteps on a far bigger stage. A victory over Alexander Zverev would also make him the first Black man to win the Open since Arthur Ashe in 1972 and the first to triumph in a Slam since Ashe prevailed at Wimbledon in 1975.

Shelton happens to be the reigning U.S. Clay Courts doubles champion, too, having left Houston in April with a second trophy won partnering up with his former Florida Gators teammate, Andres Andrade.

“I didn’t do what I wanted to do in singles,” said Shelton, who came in as the top seed again only to be upset in the quarters by Argentina’s Thiago Agustin Tirante. “But now I’m two-for-two getting a title when I come to River Oaks. It’s really cool to get a title anywhere, anyhow on the ATP Tour. They’re few and far between. To turn it around and take the title in doubles with a good friend for many years is a very good ending. I’m super happy about this.”      

It’s worth noting that Shelton’s dad, Bryan, himself triumphed at River Oaks back in 1992, when the club hosted an exhibition tournament. And Bryan, who serves as Ben’s coach, has a Grand Slam finals appearance on his resumé, too. He and Houston’s Lori McNeil played together at Roland Garros in 1992, losing to Todd Woodbridge and Arantxa Sanchez Vicario. As it happens, McNeil works as a pro at River Oaks these days.

Shelton won his Houston singles title at the expense of then defending champion Frances Tiafoe in the first-ever matchup between two Black American men in an ATP tournament. He and Tiafoe, of course, staged a similarly unprecedented rematch at Flushing Meadow in the semifinals Friday with Shelton rallying for a 4-6, 6-3, 6-3, 7-5 victory.    

Shelton had called his 7-5, 4-6, 6-3 win over Tiafoe in Houston “definitely an historical moment, a really cool moment for both of us. It’s obviously going to sting for him not going back-to-back, especially in a place he loves to play. You see him in public as this funny guy (who’s) always smiling, but he’s really thoughtful, just a good guy to be around. And he’s done a lot for getting people of color involved in the sport.”

Tiafoe, for his part, said their Houston final was “great for the sport. And it’s great to see Ben play so well. He’s young. He’s only going to get better. He’s (already) one the best servers on the Tour and he’ll fine tune his game more and more.”

As he clearly has. An Open title at the expense of the French Open champion Zverev would give Shelton his fifth singles championships in 2026 alone to go with that H-town doubles W – and a top-five ranking.

The downside for us, of course, is players ranked that highly, and coming off major titles, usually don’t pass our way again. I know this only too well because I go back as far with tennis as I do the NFL, having covered my first match at River Oaks about six months after that Oilers-Bucs game.

Yep, time flies. Cheers!

The week that wasn’t

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Updated again Sept. 24

Holed up here in my little Alpine paradise, pictured above outside my bedroom window in this most beautiful season of all, it’s easy to blissfully ignore the travails of Houston’s sports teams happening 5,400 miles to the west. However, the concurrent disasters that have befallen the Astros, the Texans and now the Rockets in recent days jarred me out of my wine-fueled complacency.

After more than a half-century spent hacking on keyboards about H-Town’s oft-prone-to-frustrate franchises, I recognize a five-alarm fire when I see one, folks. Relative to the city’s high expectations of late — at no point in our history did we have the right to believe we had three franchises with bonafide championship aspirations — I’m thinking our teams have never collectively delivered a worst fortnight.

No, really. I’m not being hysterical here. The Astros, a near-dynasty over recent summers, entered July with a seven-game lead in the AL West. The Texans were coming off consecutive seasons that produced playoff victories with a popular new coach in DeMeco Ryans and a dynamic young quarterback, C.J. Stroud, who, in 2023, delivered possibly the greatest rookie season ever for a player at his position. And the baby Rockets had ascended from the dreggiest dregs of the NBA to actually being mentioned as an outside championship contender after the addition of, holy cow, future Hall-of-Famer Kevin Durant to provide a steadying influence.

Now? After getting their butts kicked bigtime three straight nights by Seattle on their own field in the most important series of the season, then flat rolling over against a nowhere-bound A’s team twice, the Astros have all but played themselves out of playoff contention. This following seven consecutive AL West titles and after they had tricked their fans into thinking all was OK with a sweep of the Rangers. Clearly, it wasn’t.

The Texans, for their part, are a butt-ugly 0-3, having thus far showing a level of offensive ineptitude rarely seen in these parts, and we’ve born witness to some pretty dreadful offenses. How bad have they been? Their 38 points and three touchdowns are waaaay down there with the godawful 2005 Texans, who finished 2-14 after scoring 24 points and two TDs during their 0-3 start, and the pathetic 1-13 Oilers of 1973, who managed only 31 points during the same span but somehow accidentally found their find way into the end zone four times.

Offensive coordinator Nick Caley would be on the firing block if he hadn’t just been hired. The Texans’ 12.7 points per game is 32nd among 32 teams with Stroud barely a shadow of his confident, accurate rookie self. And he’s not helping his cause with an increasingly disenchanted fan base by defiantly wearing the Astros rivals’ ballcaps. Hey, C .J., get your ball-capped head out of your ass and start acting like you’ve played quarterback before.

As for the Rockets, they haven’t even reported to training camp yet and they’re already down a man, a hugely important man in the person of point guard Fred VanVleet, who has somehow torn an ACL and may not play this season. Before that terrible news broke, only the Oklahoma City Thunder were given better odds to win the NBA title than the Rockets, who have gone from 7-to-1 to 14-to-1 — even worse than the 12-1 they were prior to the Durant trade.

Da hell? What’s with these off-season injuries? Part of the Texans’ problem, of course, is their not having running back Joe Mixon, whose mysterious ankle sprain, suffered sometime over the past winter, could also keep him off the field for all of 2025.

In short, things look as bleak across the board as the photo above. Nope, it’s never easy being a Houston sports fan.

But let’s move on to a happier topic — wine — and the week that was! A recent trip to Italy’s Piemonte, three hours to the east by car from the Ubaye Valley, checked every one of my happy boxes, offering gorgeous vineyard landscapes, outstanding food and wine pairings and truly wonderful people. All of the above will be subject of my next blog, to be posted soon, I promise.

Look, I’m kinda busy over here. (Insert smiley face emoji here.) To quote Bum Phillips, the last coach to lead a Houston NFL team to the brink of the Super Bowl — 45 friggin’ years ago, fyi — when he was asked how he was spending his time in retirement: “Not much of nothin’, and I don’t start ’til noon.”

We miss Bum, don’t we?