This was a 4-part series coming atcha from bayareabias.com writer David Crowell. This is Part 4.

We continue with the Final Four and Championship of the bracket as the local sports personalities battle it out for best in the Bay. Part 1 can be found here, Part 2 can be found here, and Part 3 can be found here. At this point a lot has been said about the final four – Murph, the Razor, Mr. T, and Damon Bruce. So let’s not make like Ray Woodson here giving the same damn 20-20 sports update, instead we’ll take a different approach and come with something off the menu. Let’s simulate what this is all about, who is the ultimate personality in Bay Area sports that isn’t an athlete. You know, for that time when your buddy from Boston comes to visit and you feel a need to quiet him down about Carl Crawford signing in blood. So you invite him along to the pub and let him listen to the best we have to offer to counter the east coast bias, and with a wink as you sip your Black Label you say, “Put a corncob in it pal, we’ve got plenty to chat about out west, listen to my boy (D-Bruce? Mr.T..?) tell you how it is.”

FINAL 4:

Brian Murphy “Murph”, Ralph Barbieri “The Razor”, Tom Tolbert “Mr. T”, and Damon Bruce

As you file into The Alembic on Haight Street, you see that the Final Four have pulled together a few tables in the back for you and your two buds, one from Boston’s North End and the other from the Upper Westside of Manhattan. For years they’ve pounded into you the culture of a Sox fan and the winning attitude of the damn Yankees. The bars of Fenway, the subway ride into the Bronx, living in Boston’s Little Italy, the $1 billion new Yankee Stadium, you’ve heard it all. You’ve thrown out a feeble Pete’s Tavern reference here and a McCovey Cove reference there, but they never listen even when you get to the part about being allowed to drink on Caltrain. F it. It was time to step it up, so after some long deliberation, you decided to bring in the heavy hitters to help calm these sons of bitches down and see what the Bay has that they’re not seeing. Gathered are Murph, Mr. T, D-Bruce, and The Razor. So you pull up a chair, sit down to one of Alembic’s concoctions, going with the Bobby Burns, and loosen the collar as your boys ante up. Francis Ford Copolla is down from his Napa winery and is at the table next to you, listens in, and sharpens his pencil – he’s looking for his next Godfather.

It starts off well when your Boston bud opens his mouth first to say something gratifying about his Bruins hockey team and the Razor cuts him off in the fashion you’ve heard and loved so many times on your drive home – his raspy voice is threatening and he asks him to wait his turn, return to 1972 when his team has last won the Stanley Cup, and asks how much he knows about the San Jose Sharks. In a glare of frustration the Razor starts his rant, pointing out the fluid line of Marleau, Thornton, and Heatley, the youth of Coture and Pavelski, and as he is out of breath but somehow still talking, goes on about the hot recent goaltending of AnttiNiemi. He takes a slight pause, then discusses the Amicci’s Pizza next to the Shark Tank, the loudest building in the NHL with the most devout fans, and the bars and pubs surrounding it that bring out the best of the South Bay who have long lived in the shadow of the City. He’s yelling now. The pent up frustration! The President’s Trophy! How could you ignore one of the greatest teams in professional hockey for so long to only look so far as the Bruins and the Rangers?! He asks! Your friends start to talk but they can’t get a word in, the Razor has smoke coming out of your ears and you turn to see if Mr. T is going to calm him down but he’s sitting back, somehow having found a six-pack of Keystone, smiling at the scene. Like a poor caller who has turned numb after 67 minutes on hold, the Razor is eating your friends alive, asking questions about Milan Lucic that even his mom doesn’t know. Finally, he is out of breath, in dismay at something so nonsensical, orders a vegan sandwich, and asks if anyone had heard the news story about the “Balloon Boy” and his dad who lied about his kid getting lost in a homemade hot air balloon. You all nod slowly at the story you recalled hearing about two years earlier, but you smile, this is why you love the Razor.

Murph smiles, he has been uncomfortable with this tension, he’s clearly not used to it after running his squeaky clean morning show five days a week. He likes talking to other fans, he isn’t at home debating his team versus another, and he prefers to ham it up with the players and coaches smiling as he listens. You know he’s a bit of a kiss-up and doesn’t bring the heat very often, but he’s the biggest cheerleader you know, and if it comes down to having to reach deep for Giants knowledge and capturing the particles of the 2010 season to shove in the face of the gloating east coasters you brought, you’re glad to have ol’ Murph. And that’s where it’s going, because your New York buddy has started flapping his gums about the Yanks chances in ’11 and how they’re going all the way against the Phillies in the World Series. “2009 repeat!” he shouts. Not so fast. Murph takes a sip of his Sierra Nevada, nice middle of the road option, and smiles at your pal. He starts in on the magic your friend missed not being around 3rd and King in October last year as the Giants undressed said Phillies. Big deal. The Yanks win pretty much every other year, your friend is grinning. C’mon Murph. Unload! Murph is flustered. He is spitting out words, in no particular order. Cody Ross. B-Weezy.Year of the Chez.Particles.Ashkon.Huff Daddy.Runs for Cain.Whole lotta Posey. But it’s not adding up. Your buds just don’t understand. They weren’t there. No one was there. It was just you and a million other locals. No one outside the Bay cared, and no one ever will. Just you, and Murph, and some others.Murph starts to tear up. He knows inside he’ll have to move on from that magical fall in 2010 when there was a parade down Market Street and he held the fan base in the palm of his hand. But it’s a new spring, and 30 teams have a chance. Wilson’s beard is old news. Brian Murphy slowly stands up, finishes the last of his beer, and walks away. The Razor takes his chair. There were three left.

Quick! Someone, pick this thing up! You’re frantic. D-Bruce slides his chair a little closer to the table. He notes how happy your friends seem to be about the chances of their Red Sox and Yankees this spring. Bruce looks into his lap and chuckles quietly to himself. Which weapon in his arsenal shall he use to skin your buds and their lofty hopes? Shall he simply talk and talk and talk about the same point over and over? Shall he talk over your friends so they never get a word in? Doesn’t matter to you, you just need something to catch up where Murph couldn’t. D-Bruce starts chatting it up, asking innocent questions about their teams. Like a veteran boxer, he’s feeling out his opponent, making harmless jabs, looking for the chink in the armor. After a while you’re actually amused, it sounds as if three guys are just chatting it up about the Yanks and Red Sox at a bar. You might as well be on the east coast. Then it hits you, D-Bruce isn’t a Giants fan! In fact, he’s not even a Bay Area guy at all! How did he get at this table? How did he get here where he can talk about the Giants and other Bay Area teams while his roots were in….Indiana??! What is happening? Aren’t there hundreds of other qualified Bay Area voices to be heard before his that actually like the team? Didn’t this guy get the boot from KNBR 680 for always talking down on the Giants? But as you’re fearing the worst, you missed it happening. Bruce has gotten on top of the conversation, and the Yankees bullpen and Red Sox 4th and 5th starters are in trouble! He’s giving them his best and soon you see it, your friends have nothing left to give, they have accepted their teams’ weaknesses and inferiority to a defending World Champ like the Giants, and you smile. Sure, D-Bruce isn’t a fan of the Giants necessarily, but he’s not a fan of any baseball team but the Cubs, and they’ll never win.

Mr. T has been smiling at all this. He’s had a long day doing ads for McDonald’s and Sleep Train, so his sixth Keystone is a welcome relief. He really isn’t biased one way or the other, he just has a great story about the WWF he wants to tell. He tells it, and after about 10 minutes you realize he has segued into panda bears, Pablo Sandoval, Venuzuela, famous dictators, Adolf Hitler, and now he’s wrapping up the German soccer team’s 2010 World Cup offensive success. This is why you love Mr. T. He has a way of calming things down, finding a common denominator for all sports fans, and throwing in some solid stories from his playing days and experience. Your friends can’t remember why they were so wound up and one whispers to you that he wishes he could have this guy on his AM airwaves back home. You smile and sip your scotch. Yep, we may be able to find another guy like Bruce to drill a point home when it’s needed, but a guy like Tom Tolbert is just too hard to find. You shoot a tweet to Damon, telling him the Warriors cheerleaders are at a bar in North Beach. He’s on his way.

You look at the table. Is it down to this? The Razor v Mr. T? Are the best two that the Bay has to offer sitting in the same studio every day from 3 to 7 PM? Damn… But then you realize as your friends do too. These guys need each other. Without one there may not be the other. An hour later you’re still listening to Mr. T correct Ralph on some of the inaccuracies in his story, only for Ralph to stop himself to gain clarification as to what he is inaccurate about. This leads to a conversation about something different entirely, which Mr. T has a funny story about by the way. You realize that your friends stopped caring about counting the Celtics titles long ago and now are laughing at the unparalleled chemistry of the Razor and Mr. T. The Razor struggles to keep up but never loses interest and always offers a remark more harsh than it needed to be when your pal chimes in. But it’s all harmless, the Razor offers the latest dish of pop culture he was served and Mr. T nods in approval, adding a witty joke. It goes on like this for hours, a few of the locals slap them on the back and buy them a beer. You all drink well into the night, talking sports tales past and present. You’ve realized that this isn’t about selling your team to the fans of the east coast and anywhere in between, it’s about them seeing what the Bay Area sports scene is all about and being around the best we have to offer. As the discussion flows on, the Razor stands up, grabs an Amicci’s Pizza to-go box, and says that it’s time for him to leave. He’s been around long enough to know when his time to talk is at its end, and like that, he’s gone (just as he may be for real when his contract expires in November). Mr. T’s gaze follows him out the door, then he turns to you and your buds, orders up another round, and asks if anyone in their office had George Mason going to the Final Four in ’06.

Yep, these are the nights we have sports for. Tom Tolbert, the declared winner and guy I’d most want to have a scotch with among the Bay’s sports guys. Well deserved.

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