Imagine That
Shut your eyes for a second and take yourself back, if you can remember this far, to the 1995 NBA Finals. You’ll see some familiar faces – Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwon, Sam “The Alien” Cassell, Shaquille O’Neal. You’ll probably see some unfamiliar faces as well – Donald Royal, Tree Rollins, and perhaps the most unfamiliar of them all, an 11-year-old Midwestern kid with aviator glasses, a Nike headband and a shooting shirt from a geographically removed college basketball squad.
I’m the 11-year-old, point guard of the Newcastle Magic (they relocated from Amway Arena to my driveway, because that’s where the hoop was). It’s Game 7. Yeah, I know that in real life, the Rockets swept the Magic 4-0. But forget that for now. It’s close. Touch and go. Horry is hitting some big shots. The Dream is a force inside. Royal and Rollins are no match. But the 11-year-old point guard keeps nailing baseline jumpers, keeps driving successfully to the bucket, keeps hitting free throws after and-1 layups, and guess what – he hits the game-winning shot as time expires. The Magic overcome insurmountable odds and win the championship.
Of course, the 11-year-old was me, and guess what – it was all in my mind. I had created an entirely new basketball league, a collection of teams almost identical to the real-life NBA, except instead of cities, there were streets (I lived on Newcastle Road), a league where I was the star. Games didn’t end until I hit the buzzer-beater and lifted Shaq, Penny and the rest of the Magic to the title. In short, sports were all about imagination – that anything was possible with the right collection of players and the right dream.
Fast forward to the first quarter of 2009. Like 1995, sports are an enormous part of the American tapestry. Unlike 1995, the treatment of sports has changed. No longer are baseball and basketball simple games played for the enjoyment of fans and the self-actualization of executives, coaches, and players. Now, every sport is treated as an equation to be solved, a soulless, rote prayer to the gods of obscure statistics where effectiveness, not raw production, is holy and honored. Just win, baby. Doesn't have to be exciting. Exhibit A: the San Antonio Spurs.
Don’t take my word for it, though – peruse the roster of general managers in baseball and basketball, and see how many seasoned “franchise guys” have been replaced by analytical, incredibly young Ivy League mathematics graduates. See if you can poke your head into a West Coast offense huddle without calling a play like “Jet I 454 AB Omaha 27x Scowler on three.” Take a look at the New York Times, where the universally drab Shane Battier is shockingly identified as one of the best players in the game. Check out Amazon.com and see the position of Moneyball on the best sellers list. Can the heart of the game ever hope to be retained when wins and losses are boiled down to formulas and equations?
Forgive me for saying this, but Terrell Owens’ paranoid schizophrenia is almost heartening. If you remember, back in December, TO accused quarterback Tony Romo and tight end Jason Witten of drawing up secret plays for each other in their hotel rooms on the road. Can you imagine that level of freedom on today’s tightly managed NFL teams, where the most simple halfback dive has the most complicated play name?
It’s a damning paradox. Young athletes need organized sports to improve their levels of skill, enhance coordination, and advance through their careers. But the longer they continue into organized sports, the more creativity is discouraged. Do top high school athletes become burned out because of the demanding year-round schedules of their specialty sports, or is it because it’s no longer a game – it’s a formula, with a highly specified path to victory? Is it a coincidence that at least in basketball, coaches who allow their players freedom on the court enjoy more than a semblance of success (see Bobby Hurley at St. Anthony’s in Jersey City, or to a lesser extent, Buzz Williams this season at Marquette).
Keep the imagination in sports. This is the set of activities that brought us the alley-oop, the flea-flicker, the spitball, and the bicycle kick. Equations and formulas may tell who which player is most effective, but they'll never be a substitute for timely hitting or clutch shooting. And that's how it should be.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Cousin Bink's Country Beer Jamboree
Volume 1, Issue 2
Second City of Weird
I'd like to start out with a warm birthday greeting to fellow blogger CTB. Enjoy it big fellow.
Chicago is a weird place. From a cow starting a fire that nearly destroyed the town to Donald Trump making a really big building, there are plenty of crazy stories in the history of the Second City, and sports is no different.
A couple days ago I heard a sports radio host talking about how hard it must be for Derrick Rose to grow in the NBA when in Chicago he will always be compared to THE greatest basketball player ever, Michael Jeffery Jordan. I mean his statue is outside the freaking stadium Rose plays in. Not a lot easier for Matt Forte or any other running back the Bears bring in, as the large shadow of Walter Payton still looms over Soldier Field. At least the Bulls made the best of things with Jordan, winning six titles. Meanwhile the Bears with Payton, and one of the greatest defenses of all time, were only able to win one damn Super Bowl.
It doesn't end with the Bulls and Bears. While the other 3 professional sports teams in Chicago (Sox, Cubs, and Blackhawks, for this discussion we'll leave out the Skye and Fire) have had plenty of great players none would really be called one of the top 5 of all-time in their sport like Jordan and Payton. The White Sox and Cubs, who together have played 210 baseball seasons since the advent of the World Series have won a measley 5. For you mathematical wizards out there that comes out to a whopping 2.3%. This is absolutely pathetic. The New York Yankees alone have 26. Hell the Florida Marlins and Arizona Diamondbacks have 3 World Series victories in a combined 25 years. Whether a North Side Guy (Lou) or a South Side Guy (Ozzie) when looking at both franchises they certainly share ineptitude as well as the same city.
And now for all you hockey fans let's look at the Blackhawks. The Hawks, the mighty Blackhawks, have won three Stanley Cups, the last coming in 1960-61. 3 Cups is kind of disappointing considering they're one of the Original Six teams in the league going back to 1926. Again 3 out of 82 isn't too good, coming out to a staggering 3.6%.
What does all this mean? Not much, just that of the five teams in Chicago, four of them which are original franchises in their sport, the most successful would arguably be the one team that is only a mere 42 years old. Arguably because while the Bears do have 9 world championships, only 3 have come since the end of World War II, while the Bulls won 6 out 8 titles with a legit dynasty. As for which team will once again lead Chicago to greatness? I'm not making any bets, except for saying it probably won't be the Northsiders.
Second City of Weird
I'd like to start out with a warm birthday greeting to fellow blogger CTB. Enjoy it big fellow.
Chicago is a weird place. From a cow starting a fire that nearly destroyed the town to Donald Trump making a really big building, there are plenty of crazy stories in the history of the Second City, and sports is no different.
A couple days ago I heard a sports radio host talking about how hard it must be for Derrick Rose to grow in the NBA when in Chicago he will always be compared to THE greatest basketball player ever, Michael Jeffery Jordan. I mean his statue is outside the freaking stadium Rose plays in. Not a lot easier for Matt Forte or any other running back the Bears bring in, as the large shadow of Walter Payton still looms over Soldier Field. At least the Bulls made the best of things with Jordan, winning six titles. Meanwhile the Bears with Payton, and one of the greatest defenses of all time, were only able to win one damn Super Bowl.
It doesn't end with the Bulls and Bears. While the other 3 professional sports teams in Chicago (Sox, Cubs, and Blackhawks, for this discussion we'll leave out the Skye and Fire) have had plenty of great players none would really be called one of the top 5 of all-time in their sport like Jordan and Payton. The White Sox and Cubs, who together have played 210 baseball seasons since the advent of the World Series have won a measley 5. For you mathematical wizards out there that comes out to a whopping 2.3%. This is absolutely pathetic. The New York Yankees alone have 26. Hell the Florida Marlins and Arizona Diamondbacks have 3 World Series victories in a combined 25 years. Whether a North Side Guy (Lou) or a South Side Guy (Ozzie) when looking at both franchises they certainly share ineptitude as well as the same city.
And now for all you hockey fans let's look at the Blackhawks. The Hawks, the mighty Blackhawks, have won three Stanley Cups, the last coming in 1960-61. 3 Cups is kind of disappointing considering they're one of the Original Six teams in the league going back to 1926. Again 3 out of 82 isn't too good, coming out to a staggering 3.6%.
What does all this mean? Not much, just that of the five teams in Chicago, four of them which are original franchises in their sport, the most successful would arguably be the one team that is only a mere 42 years old. Arguably because while the Bears do have 9 world championships, only 3 have come since the end of World War II, while the Bulls won 6 out 8 titles with a legit dynasty. As for which team will once again lead Chicago to greatness? I'm not making any bets, except for saying it probably won't be the Northsiders.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Smoke Break
Memories Are Made Of This
Warm sentiments of yesteryear are nice. The memories bring you back to a time where you didn’t worry about your heart stopping as the second grease-coated pickle from a Quarter Pounder eased its way through your digestive tract. The below-the-belt, above-the-knees chicken pox after an expensive night in Vegas was a far-off reality.
Our feckless (and wart-less) youth was a simpler time. Your Will Perdue autograph meant something. Now it means you spent too much time speaking with Will Perdue.
Those memories form the foundation of how we perceive sports, but it is only that, a foundation. The memories should not overwhelm our ideas or of today.
So it is somewhat disconcerting that emotional thinkers want to revert back to their youth, keep the image of their favorite superstars in plastic and do little to unsettle the idea of what was.
At least that’s the unease bandied about by some when Ryne Sandberg’s name is brought up as a possible replacement to Lou Piniella.
This unease is in large part due to the John Paxson situation. Some feel that the underachieving and the gun-shy trading inactivity of the Bulls General Manager has diminished their memories of him as a player. In my village, we call those people idiots.
Granted, Sandberg was much more of a vital element to the modicum of success the Cubs had than Paxson was to the Bulls first three NBA Championships (just don’t tell that to white females over the age of 40), but why let the past come in the way of destroying possible success in the future?
When it’s last call for Piniella (throw in your own witty comment here) let Sandberg take over if he gives the team the best chance to win.
If he wins, the town is his. A world-class player turned world-class manager turns a team into a World Series Champion.
If he fails, discard him like Don Baylor, toss him into the trash like Jim Riggleman or give him a “we don’t know what to call you but you need to work for us because our organization needs to save face” title that Billy Williams has whistled for the past two decades when people ask him what he does.
The Blackhawks dismissed Dennis Savard at the beginning of the season. He helped the franchise climb out of obscurity, but the organization believed Savard had brought the team as far along as he could. He now holds a Miss America type job with the Hawks where waving is his primary job.
The firing raised the ire of some at first, but the predominant desire to win took over. It always does. Winning trumps everything.
Everything except that case of chicken pox. You might want to get that checked out.
Warm sentiments of yesteryear are nice. The memories bring you back to a time where you didn’t worry about your heart stopping as the second grease-coated pickle from a Quarter Pounder eased its way through your digestive tract. The below-the-belt, above-the-knees chicken pox after an expensive night in Vegas was a far-off reality.
Our feckless (and wart-less) youth was a simpler time. Your Will Perdue autograph meant something. Now it means you spent too much time speaking with Will Perdue.
Those memories form the foundation of how we perceive sports, but it is only that, a foundation. The memories should not overwhelm our ideas or of today.
So it is somewhat disconcerting that emotional thinkers want to revert back to their youth, keep the image of their favorite superstars in plastic and do little to unsettle the idea of what was.
At least that’s the unease bandied about by some when Ryne Sandberg’s name is brought up as a possible replacement to Lou Piniella.
This unease is in large part due to the John Paxson situation. Some feel that the underachieving and the gun-shy trading inactivity of the Bulls General Manager has diminished their memories of him as a player. In my village, we call those people idiots.
Granted, Sandberg was much more of a vital element to the modicum of success the Cubs had than Paxson was to the Bulls first three NBA Championships (just don’t tell that to white females over the age of 40), but why let the past come in the way of destroying possible success in the future?
When it’s last call for Piniella (throw in your own witty comment here) let Sandberg take over if he gives the team the best chance to win.
If he wins, the town is his. A world-class player turned world-class manager turns a team into a World Series Champion.
If he fails, discard him like Don Baylor, toss him into the trash like Jim Riggleman or give him a “we don’t know what to call you but you need to work for us because our organization needs to save face” title that Billy Williams has whistled for the past two decades when people ask him what he does.
The Blackhawks dismissed Dennis Savard at the beginning of the season. He helped the franchise climb out of obscurity, but the organization believed Savard had brought the team as far along as he could. He now holds a Miss America type job with the Hawks where waving is his primary job.
The firing raised the ire of some at first, but the predominant desire to win took over. It always does. Winning trumps everything.
Everything except that case of chicken pox. You might want to get that checked out.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Realizations
On The Prowl
I would rather watch paint dry. I would rather sit in the dentist chair while being tortured with that horrifying drill. I would rather watch a Laguna Beach marathon on mute while the Dave Matthews Band song “Crash” played on repeat. I’m talking of course about watching the PGA Tour without Tiger Woods.
Did the PGA Tour play the second half of the 2008 season? My last memory of last season is Tiger defeating Rocco Mediate on the 91st hole of the US Open to capture his 14th major title. I figured the Tour just packed it in for the summer. No need to play the British Open or the PGA Championship. I hear a rumor that they might have even played the Ryder Cup, but I have been unable to verify that.
Last week it was announced that Tiger Woods is going to make his return to the PGA Tour this week at the Accenture Match Play Championship. Something makes me think that Phil Mickelson, while sitting at home and drinking his Yoohoo, decided to pick up the phone and show his deep concern for Tiger’s well-being while giving him his unsolicited opinion that he should continue his rehab and not come back so soon. Sponsors everywhere are breathing a big sigh of relief as they no longer have to rely on Ratief Goosen to sell tickets.
No other player has ever meant more to their sport than what Tiger Woods means to golf. The Buick Invitational, one of Tiger’s major sponsors, had a 60% decrease in ratings this past year as compared to the year before when Tiger was healthy… he is golf’s version of a stimulus plan.
Over the years we have been force fed the names of players who would step up and challenge Tiger. Be Larry Bird to his Magic Johnson. David Duval, Vijay Singh, Sergio Garcia, Ernie Els, Phil Mickelson. All really good players, but none have come close. Now, with the new season getting underway and Woods having to comeback from injury for the first time in his career, there are whispers that it will not be the same old story. Once again, we are being bombarded with names of the new up and coming stars who are going to de-thrown Woods and make the sport more than a one man show. Anthony Kim, Boo Weekly, Hunter Mahan and many more are going to be the next (and first) to give Woods some serious competition.
I give the sport of golf some credit for wanting to create the notion that they have great competition. Yes, it’s true that in a given tournament, Woods can be beaten. But the fact remains that no one is going out play him for an entire season. Today’s technology has allowed for rising superstar golfers to become more fundamentally sound, have perfect swing technique, putt with precision and be stronger than ever. But, what technology cannot do for these players is compete with Woods where it matters the most, between the ears. His mental focus is unprecedented. He wants the pressure, he thrives on it and in a game where you have no one to rely on but yourself, that means everything.
We as sports fans try to pretend that we like parity, we like competition and we don’t want to see dynasties. We are fooling ourselves. I for one want to see greatness. We are witnessing history with Tiger Woods. He can arguably (that’s the beauty of it) play golf better than anyone else can do anything. So, this spring while the majority of the sporting world is gearing up for another long…. long…. loooooong baseball season, I will be tuned in to Augusta National at the Masters and every other tournament in which Woods signs up to play, because I want to witness history. Besides, it’s much more exciting than watching day/night doubleheaders in the National League… or watching paint dry.
I would rather watch paint dry. I would rather sit in the dentist chair while being tortured with that horrifying drill. I would rather watch a Laguna Beach marathon on mute while the Dave Matthews Band song “Crash” played on repeat. I’m talking of course about watching the PGA Tour without Tiger Woods.
Did the PGA Tour play the second half of the 2008 season? My last memory of last season is Tiger defeating Rocco Mediate on the 91st hole of the US Open to capture his 14th major title. I figured the Tour just packed it in for the summer. No need to play the British Open or the PGA Championship. I hear a rumor that they might have even played the Ryder Cup, but I have been unable to verify that.
Last week it was announced that Tiger Woods is going to make his return to the PGA Tour this week at the Accenture Match Play Championship. Something makes me think that Phil Mickelson, while sitting at home and drinking his Yoohoo, decided to pick up the phone and show his deep concern for Tiger’s well-being while giving him his unsolicited opinion that he should continue his rehab and not come back so soon. Sponsors everywhere are breathing a big sigh of relief as they no longer have to rely on Ratief Goosen to sell tickets.
No other player has ever meant more to their sport than what Tiger Woods means to golf. The Buick Invitational, one of Tiger’s major sponsors, had a 60% decrease in ratings this past year as compared to the year before when Tiger was healthy… he is golf’s version of a stimulus plan.
Over the years we have been force fed the names of players who would step up and challenge Tiger. Be Larry Bird to his Magic Johnson. David Duval, Vijay Singh, Sergio Garcia, Ernie Els, Phil Mickelson. All really good players, but none have come close. Now, with the new season getting underway and Woods having to comeback from injury for the first time in his career, there are whispers that it will not be the same old story. Once again, we are being bombarded with names of the new up and coming stars who are going to de-thrown Woods and make the sport more than a one man show. Anthony Kim, Boo Weekly, Hunter Mahan and many more are going to be the next (and first) to give Woods some serious competition.
I give the sport of golf some credit for wanting to create the notion that they have great competition. Yes, it’s true that in a given tournament, Woods can be beaten. But the fact remains that no one is going out play him for an entire season. Today’s technology has allowed for rising superstar golfers to become more fundamentally sound, have perfect swing technique, putt with precision and be stronger than ever. But, what technology cannot do for these players is compete with Woods where it matters the most, between the ears. His mental focus is unprecedented. He wants the pressure, he thrives on it and in a game where you have no one to rely on but yourself, that means everything.
We as sports fans try to pretend that we like parity, we like competition and we don’t want to see dynasties. We are fooling ourselves. I for one want to see greatness. We are witnessing history with Tiger Woods. He can arguably (that’s the beauty of it) play golf better than anyone else can do anything. So, this spring while the majority of the sporting world is gearing up for another long…. long…. loooooong baseball season, I will be tuned in to Augusta National at the Masters and every other tournament in which Woods signs up to play, because I want to witness history. Besides, it’s much more exciting than watching day/night doubleheaders in the National League… or watching paint dry.
Monday, February 23, 2009
AMusings
It would be silly of me to try to ignore the steroid scandal plaguing my favorite sport: baseball. However, it seems to me that it has been no problem for Allen “Bud” Selig to do just that; ignore a problem so large that NASA should be looking into it, or Carnie Wilson should be giving it her old clothes.
I don’t want to give the impression that this blog is going to be about steroids, because frankly, the steroids don’t bother me. If you are in a competitive sport and think you can give yourself an edge, so be it. This blog is about the clown whose signature appears on every baseball, the man who claims he is in charge of America’s pastime, the man who is the biggest joke since Hulk Hogan’s acting career: Bud Selig.
It seems to me every time I listen to a broadcast of major league baseball, whether it be the Cubs, White Sox, ESPN, TBS, whatever, some fool is singing the praises of the man who has done absolutely nothing to help the game.
STOP! WAIT! I know, I know. The wild card. Yes, I know you think the wild card helped baseball, and I absolutely agree with you. The wild card has made so many more games meaningful, and so many more teams relevant. I don’t see how Bud gets the credit for that one though. Basketball and football already had the wild card in place by the time Selig adopted it. I don’t give him any credit for that.
Do we need to discuss the all-star game? Must I waste a paragraph or two on a game I don’t even watch due to the fact that 75% of the people on the field don’t want to be there? Ok. I will. But I don’t want to. Bud made the decision in 2002 to allow the game end in a tie. I didn’t care. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s an interruption of the baseball season. I don’t care if it ends in a tie, gets rained out, cancelled, or if one team wins 45-0. I don’t care.
Bud thought I cared. I’m not sure why, but he thought a lot of people cared. The only person I can think of that would even consider caring is Ray Fosse. And I’m not too concerned with his opinion. So since Bud thought we cared, he had to do something about the problem that HE CREATED. So what did he do? He made the All-Star game the decider for home field advantage in the world series…There are 16 teams in the National League, and at least 8 of them will not even see the playoffs in the next 5 years. Of the 14 in the AL, there are at least 5 or 6 that are in the same boat. Why should they care who has home field advantage? If I’m a Yankee fan, or a Red Sox fan, I don’t want members of the Blue Jays and Royals deciding my October travel plans.
You may say that pride in your league is a good reason to want home field advantage. Pride is dead. Pride in major league baseball went the way of the Dodo bird a while ago. If you don’t believe me, watch the video of Rafael Palmiero telling us how he didn’t do steroids, or Sammy Sosa forgetting an entire language.
And by the way, who “didn’t know anything” about the steroid use of players like Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGuire, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro, Roger Clemens, Andy Petitte, and so many other major names in his sport? The so-called leader, and wonderful commissioner of Major League baseball, Bud Selig.
If Bud didn’t know anything about these issues, at the very least he needs to be fired. What kind of leader is he? If you have drug testing, and people are failing, then you know they are on drugs. That simple. If anyone else failed this miserably at a job they would be on the unemployment line. Not Allen Bud though. No, don’t you remember, he brought the wild card to baseball! He’s done so much for the game.
He has done a lot for the game. He has allowed steroids to become the norm on his watch, he has made a mockery of the all-star game, and then tried to cover it up by making a mockery of home field advantage in the world series. He has not taken responsibility for anything that has happened during his tenure, and in my opinion, it is high time he do so. Actually, the time for him to take responsibility was a long time ago, but instead he…he… looked the other way…. there, I guess I did find something he’s good at.
I don’t want to give the impression that this blog is going to be about steroids, because frankly, the steroids don’t bother me. If you are in a competitive sport and think you can give yourself an edge, so be it. This blog is about the clown whose signature appears on every baseball, the man who claims he is in charge of America’s pastime, the man who is the biggest joke since Hulk Hogan’s acting career: Bud Selig.
It seems to me every time I listen to a broadcast of major league baseball, whether it be the Cubs, White Sox, ESPN, TBS, whatever, some fool is singing the praises of the man who has done absolutely nothing to help the game.
STOP! WAIT! I know, I know. The wild card. Yes, I know you think the wild card helped baseball, and I absolutely agree with you. The wild card has made so many more games meaningful, and so many more teams relevant. I don’t see how Bud gets the credit for that one though. Basketball and football already had the wild card in place by the time Selig adopted it. I don’t give him any credit for that.
Do we need to discuss the all-star game? Must I waste a paragraph or two on a game I don’t even watch due to the fact that 75% of the people on the field don’t want to be there? Ok. I will. But I don’t want to. Bud made the decision in 2002 to allow the game end in a tie. I didn’t care. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s an interruption of the baseball season. I don’t care if it ends in a tie, gets rained out, cancelled, or if one team wins 45-0. I don’t care.
Bud thought I cared. I’m not sure why, but he thought a lot of people cared. The only person I can think of that would even consider caring is Ray Fosse. And I’m not too concerned with his opinion. So since Bud thought we cared, he had to do something about the problem that HE CREATED. So what did he do? He made the All-Star game the decider for home field advantage in the world series…There are 16 teams in the National League, and at least 8 of them will not even see the playoffs in the next 5 years. Of the 14 in the AL, there are at least 5 or 6 that are in the same boat. Why should they care who has home field advantage? If I’m a Yankee fan, or a Red Sox fan, I don’t want members of the Blue Jays and Royals deciding my October travel plans.
You may say that pride in your league is a good reason to want home field advantage. Pride is dead. Pride in major league baseball went the way of the Dodo bird a while ago. If you don’t believe me, watch the video of Rafael Palmiero telling us how he didn’t do steroids, or Sammy Sosa forgetting an entire language.
And by the way, who “didn’t know anything” about the steroid use of players like Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, Mark McGuire, Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmeiro, Roger Clemens, Andy Petitte, and so many other major names in his sport? The so-called leader, and wonderful commissioner of Major League baseball, Bud Selig.
If Bud didn’t know anything about these issues, at the very least he needs to be fired. What kind of leader is he? If you have drug testing, and people are failing, then you know they are on drugs. That simple. If anyone else failed this miserably at a job they would be on the unemployment line. Not Allen Bud though. No, don’t you remember, he brought the wild card to baseball! He’s done so much for the game.
He has done a lot for the game. He has allowed steroids to become the norm on his watch, he has made a mockery of the all-star game, and then tried to cover it up by making a mockery of home field advantage in the world series. He has not taken responsibility for anything that has happened during his tenure, and in my opinion, it is high time he do so. Actually, the time for him to take responsibility was a long time ago, but instead he…he… looked the other way…. there, I guess I did find something he’s good at.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
COUSIN BINK'S COUNTRY BEER JAMBOREE
Volume 1, Issue 1
Spring Is in the Air
I absolutely hate February. It’s cold, even with global warming making it 66 last week, it’s usually cold, school is in full swing, and the sport landscape is horribly bare. Now, I know plenty of people can argue that there’s a lot of great NBA and college basketball action, and I’m sure they are quite exciting to people, but I haven’t cared about the NBA since I grew out of my Toni Kukoc jersey in 2000. As for college basketball I’m sure there’s some very exciting games to watch, but I really can’t get interested in the season until the conference tournaments start.
Outside of round ball you have the NHL, NASCAR, and the PGA in February. Oh and the always competitive NFL Pro-Bowl. And I know the Super Bowl is in February the past few years, but I still consider that more of January event that happens to fall in February. It’s usually colder in January but at least then you have the NFL Playoffs, and much more importantly my birthday. I’m trying to get into hockey and watch Black Hawk games, but even hardcore NHL fans see this time of the NHL season as the dog days of winter. NASCAR is not my cup of tea, never has been, never will be, although I do enjoy the occasional time that the drivers get out of their cars and threaten each other, and think that should become a requirement for races. And the PGA? To be honest I didn’t even know that had started but saw a commercial for a golf tournament this coming weekend. I can only care about the four grand slams and even then I’m only watching half-way through Sunday. I’d much rather go out with John Daly, then watch John Daly golf.
The only thing that holds my interest in February is the start of baseball spring training. Of course spring training usually gives as good a barometer of a team’s chances as an NFL Pre-Season. Perhaps even more so this year, with Bud Selig’s Abortion (also known as the World Baseball Classic, although his whole commissionership is really an abortion, but that’s another article for another time) taking away players from their teams camps and making them play for some false idea of “national pride.” I don’t care about what America does in this stupid thing, the only thing that matters to me is that John Danks will not waste his arm in some random game against the Netherlands, hopefully saving him for important games in September.
But alas, I am not here to condemn the WBC. I am here to offer a word of hope and spring. There are professional baseball players and they are practicing and gearing up for their regular season. Now granted, gearing up for their regular season probably means shooting up with the newest untraceable steroids, but they are gearing up nonetheless. Yes, spring is in the air, unfortunately the groundhog said it’s about four weeks ago, but by my count it’s about 46 days off. Truly an American pastime returns.
*************************************************************************************
Well that’s the first article, and now a bit about me. I’m Ryan Everett, but you can all call me Bink, a nickname given to me as a 4 year old by my Uncle Ray. I was born and raised and still live on the Southside of Chicago I’m 23, live at home, work two jobs that pay $11 an hour and am a constant disappointment to my parents. I recently graduated from
As you may have been able to tell by my article I love the NFL, but my true passion when it comes to sports would be baseball and specifically the Chicago White Sox. I follow the NBA well enough to be able to engage in conversations about it, but I won’t start a conversation about it, and don’t expect a lot of articles about it. Same goes for college basketball. So you maybe wondering why you should read, especially if you like basketball. Well, for one thing I only write once a week, so it won’t take that much time. I mean I know how hard it is trying to kill time and when you’ve got nothing better to do maybe you can come here, Celebrate the Temporary (see what I did there), and I’ll give you something to think about for 34 seconds before you go back to the porn, or that addictive mini-golf game. I look forward to comments, questions, stalker threats, and Craigslist postings for science fiction erotica paintings.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Smoke Break
Knight Time Excitement
I’m going to say this in hopes that locusts don’t swarm and cover every inch of my body and my teeth don’t fall out of my mouth, molar by bicuspid.
Bobby Knight is a natural for television.
Compounding my admiration of Knight’s television work is the ever-shifting perception I had of him as a coach.
Watching college basketball in grade school and high school, Knight was the biggest clown in the circus. His antics made him a centralized figure in the theatre of the rectangle. His clean program — relative to lauding someone who has a clean dog, even though Sniffles doesn’t use toilet paper and eats sardines off the floor— made him the envy of other fan bases and coaches. His red sweater, red faced cuss-outs cast him as the lead villain.
It was cool to see someone treat other people like garbage and get cheered when you returned home. I soon realized that my justification was based on what I’ve seen in professional wrestling, not exactly a good mirror of life. Then again, Knight might have owned the same mirror. That is the only reason a grown man would bring a whip to practice and throw a chair to incite a crowd, right?
Much like laser tag, these actions weren’t cool in college and the actions are not admirable now. No one deserves to be treated the way Knight treated his players and members of the media. Compounding his lame antics was postseason success on par with Scott Norwood’s right foot in the autumn of his coaching years.
Fast forward and now he’s become what he most desires: the center of attention.
All of those years of peppering press conferences with a sailor’s vocabulary, grabbing players by the jersey at half court and (amusingly) contorting his face to find that definitive game face, Knight was the show. Win, lose or %$@#%&* early NCAA tournament exit.
Knight has willingly accepted his position in the media because he gets to hear himself speak. That has always been enough of a reason for him to give it all he’s got.
It is easy to separate Knight the television personality with Knight the coach.
Knight the television personality speaks on the pleasantries of man-to-man defense and sharing the ball to create the best possible shot. His insight is second to none and his analysis is a far cry from the (Boom! Pow! Wham!) vocabulary that inhabits most of those incontinent former players turned analysts.
However, don’t credit Knight the person. While the rest of the broadcasters are well coiffed with pocket squares and ties sitting prominently amongst their custom-fitted lapels, Knight has to be different. Let the general stand-alone again!
No ties, no cufflinks for Knight. His rolled-up pullover and khaki combo might have others confused with the nattily attired men running the Bassmaster Classic. No rules for Knight. He can drop his jig and minnow wherever he pleases.
I still wish nothing but flat soda and ill-fitting shoes on Bobby Knight. He can’t be completely absolved for the way he treated people, but listen to Bobby the broadcaster. It could provide you with a great Knight cap after another bad SEC basketball game.
I’m going to say this in hopes that locusts don’t swarm and cover every inch of my body and my teeth don’t fall out of my mouth, molar by bicuspid.
Bobby Knight is a natural for television.
Compounding my admiration of Knight’s television work is the ever-shifting perception I had of him as a coach.
Watching college basketball in grade school and high school, Knight was the biggest clown in the circus. His antics made him a centralized figure in the theatre of the rectangle. His clean program — relative to lauding someone who has a clean dog, even though Sniffles doesn’t use toilet paper and eats sardines off the floor— made him the envy of other fan bases and coaches. His red sweater, red faced cuss-outs cast him as the lead villain.
It was cool to see someone treat other people like garbage and get cheered when you returned home. I soon realized that my justification was based on what I’ve seen in professional wrestling, not exactly a good mirror of life. Then again, Knight might have owned the same mirror. That is the only reason a grown man would bring a whip to practice and throw a chair to incite a crowd, right?
Much like laser tag, these actions weren’t cool in college and the actions are not admirable now. No one deserves to be treated the way Knight treated his players and members of the media. Compounding his lame antics was postseason success on par with Scott Norwood’s right foot in the autumn of his coaching years.
Fast forward and now he’s become what he most desires: the center of attention.
All of those years of peppering press conferences with a sailor’s vocabulary, grabbing players by the jersey at half court and (amusingly) contorting his face to find that definitive game face, Knight was the show. Win, lose or %$@#%&* early NCAA tournament exit.
Knight has willingly accepted his position in the media because he gets to hear himself speak. That has always been enough of a reason for him to give it all he’s got.
It is easy to separate Knight the television personality with Knight the coach.
Knight the television personality speaks on the pleasantries of man-to-man defense and sharing the ball to create the best possible shot. His insight is second to none and his analysis is a far cry from the (Boom! Pow! Wham!) vocabulary that inhabits most of those incontinent former players turned analysts.
However, don’t credit Knight the person. While the rest of the broadcasters are well coiffed with pocket squares and ties sitting prominently amongst their custom-fitted lapels, Knight has to be different. Let the general stand-alone again!
No ties, no cufflinks for Knight. His rolled-up pullover and khaki combo might have others confused with the nattily attired men running the Bassmaster Classic. No rules for Knight. He can drop his jig and minnow wherever he pleases.
I still wish nothing but flat soda and ill-fitting shoes on Bobby Knight. He can’t be completely absolved for the way he treated people, but listen to Bobby the broadcaster. It could provide you with a great Knight cap after another bad SEC basketball game.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Realizations - Brad Ton
Mulligans
How many times have you been in this position? Your entire round of golf you have been following a group of guys who think that every bad shot means they must pull another ball out of their pocket and try again. Meanwhile, you’re stuck back in the fairway with enough time on your hands that you wish you had Rodney Dangerfield’s golf bag so you could at least watch a little television or pour a nice cold one from the tap.
I used to despise those that made a mockery of the game of golf by taking mulligans. But why? Why is it that we are looked poorly upon for do-overs? Should we not all be allowed an occasional redo?
When it comes to our favorite sports teams, this idea of not being able to change our minds gets magnified even more. We must be “true” and “loyal” fans. Even if the team we grew up loving completely changes it’s identity.
Well, I am here today to say something I never thought I would say. I want a mulligan! I grew up a Dallas Cowboys fan. My early years were easy as the early to mid 90’s brought winning, hall-of-famers and Super Bowls. I even cheered (or cried) and watched every game during the Quincy Carter, Chad Hutchinson and let’s not forget the Vinny Testaverde years. But right now I have had it. There is loyalty but then there is also stupidity. I can take losing. I can take underachieving. I can take thirteen probowlers equating to a first round loss. But, I cannot take this.
We all know about the Pacman Jones fiasco, so there is no need for me to get into all of that. I like to consider myself a realist. I don’t look up to athletes. I don’t idolize them and they are not my role models (except of course Tom Brady… I’d love to be hated by everyone and go home to a supermodel). I really don’t care what the players of my favorite teams do in their spare time off the field or floor. No, my biggest problem with this team is the owner, Jerry Jones. This stubborn attitude that when the square peg doesn’t fit into the round hole, we don’t get the round peg… no no, we push the square peg harder trying to force it until something eventually breaks (like a pinkie finger). Stability wins in the NFL. If the Pittsburgh Steelers are the girl you take home to mom, then the Dallas Cowboys are the stripper you met on a night you’d like to forget.
What is wrong with just being a sports fan? Why must we have that one team we root for? As I get older (and considerably less stable) I am finding that I would rather watch any team play as long as it is a good game. I like stars, I like drama, and I like a story line. I don’t like the idea that I am stuck with a particular team when everything I once enjoyed about them has vanished. When the team I like loses, it doesn’t ruin my weekend. I don’t have to unplug the television to avoid catching any highlights of that dropped pass (or snap). I don’t refuse to answer the phone call from a gloating friend.
I am not as diehard about sports as I used to be, but I enjoy them more than I ever have. So, take your mulligan… take three or four. I’ll be behind you sitting in the grass pouring another cold one and patiently waiting for my chance to hit one into the woods so I can pull another ball out of my pocket and try again.
Now to tell you a little bit about myself. I was born and raised in the great state of Indiana and I have all of my teeth. Contrary to popular belief we do not all drive red pick up trucks and listen to John Mellencamp. I am a strong believer that heart and work ethic are overrated qualities. The more talented team wins. Tony Dungy never coached the Colts, Peyton Manning did and always will until retirement.
I have a tattoo of the Michael Jordan Jumpman logo on my arm for two reasons. One, the obvious, there would be endless war and the Earth would cease to exist were it not for him being the greatest athlete of all time. Secondly, I have a cross tattooed on my right arm and Jesus felt left out so I had to add God to the other side.
I love arguing about sports even if I don’t agree with what I’m saying. I don’t pretend to know anything about baseball so you won’t catch me writing about it (unless of course Kenny Lofton makes a comeback). You should read my column because doesn’t every group need a redhead? I mean really, if you think you can match my perspective you are sadly mistaken. I look forward to your comments, concerns and anything that I can add to the front of my refrigerator.
Brad
How many times have you been in this position? Your entire round of golf you have been following a group of guys who think that every bad shot means they must pull another ball out of their pocket and try again. Meanwhile, you’re stuck back in the fairway with enough time on your hands that you wish you had Rodney Dangerfield’s golf bag so you could at least watch a little television or pour a nice cold one from the tap.
I used to despise those that made a mockery of the game of golf by taking mulligans. But why? Why is it that we are looked poorly upon for do-overs? Should we not all be allowed an occasional redo?
When it comes to our favorite sports teams, this idea of not being able to change our minds gets magnified even more. We must be “true” and “loyal” fans. Even if the team we grew up loving completely changes it’s identity.
Well, I am here today to say something I never thought I would say. I want a mulligan! I grew up a Dallas Cowboys fan. My early years were easy as the early to mid 90’s brought winning, hall-of-famers and Super Bowls. I even cheered (or cried) and watched every game during the Quincy Carter, Chad Hutchinson and let’s not forget the Vinny Testaverde years. But right now I have had it. There is loyalty but then there is also stupidity. I can take losing. I can take underachieving. I can take thirteen probowlers equating to a first round loss. But, I cannot take this.
We all know about the Pacman Jones fiasco, so there is no need for me to get into all of that. I like to consider myself a realist. I don’t look up to athletes. I don’t idolize them and they are not my role models (except of course Tom Brady… I’d love to be hated by everyone and go home to a supermodel). I really don’t care what the players of my favorite teams do in their spare time off the field or floor. No, my biggest problem with this team is the owner, Jerry Jones. This stubborn attitude that when the square peg doesn’t fit into the round hole, we don’t get the round peg… no no, we push the square peg harder trying to force it until something eventually breaks (like a pinkie finger). Stability wins in the NFL. If the Pittsburgh Steelers are the girl you take home to mom, then the Dallas Cowboys are the stripper you met on a night you’d like to forget.
What is wrong with just being a sports fan? Why must we have that one team we root for? As I get older (and considerably less stable) I am finding that I would rather watch any team play as long as it is a good game. I like stars, I like drama, and I like a story line. I don’t like the idea that I am stuck with a particular team when everything I once enjoyed about them has vanished. When the team I like loses, it doesn’t ruin my weekend. I don’t have to unplug the television to avoid catching any highlights of that dropped pass (or snap). I don’t refuse to answer the phone call from a gloating friend.
I am not as diehard about sports as I used to be, but I enjoy them more than I ever have. So, take your mulligan… take three or four. I’ll be behind you sitting in the grass pouring another cold one and patiently waiting for my chance to hit one into the woods so I can pull another ball out of my pocket and try again.
Now to tell you a little bit about myself. I was born and raised in the great state of Indiana and I have all of my teeth. Contrary to popular belief we do not all drive red pick up trucks and listen to John Mellencamp. I am a strong believer that heart and work ethic are overrated qualities. The more talented team wins. Tony Dungy never coached the Colts, Peyton Manning did and always will until retirement.
I have a tattoo of the Michael Jordan Jumpman logo on my arm for two reasons. One, the obvious, there would be endless war and the Earth would cease to exist were it not for him being the greatest athlete of all time. Secondly, I have a cross tattooed on my right arm and Jesus felt left out so I had to add God to the other side.
I love arguing about sports even if I don’t agree with what I’m saying. I don’t pretend to know anything about baseball so you won’t catch me writing about it (unless of course Kenny Lofton makes a comeback). You should read my column because doesn’t every group need a redhead? I mean really, if you think you can match my perspective you are sadly mistaken. I look forward to your comments, concerns and anything that I can add to the front of my refrigerator.
Brad
Monday, February 16, 2009
Amusings
-CTB
“Wrigley Concerts hit sour note”
It may just be me, but I have always considered Wrigley Field a Mecca of baseball. Something about watching steroid induced men in tight striped pants play America’s game against a backdrop of ivy has always given me a tingle usually reserved for a Topanga sighting on “Boy Meets World.” I try to attend at least 15 Cubs games a year because I enjoy Wrigley so much. I have always thought of it as a nice place to relax and escape. But lately, something has been happening to my ballpark…something strange is going on at Clark and Addison….they’re playing music inside and it’s not Gary Pressy at the Lowery Organ. It’s Jimmy Buffett! It’s Sting! It’s Billy Joel! It’s Elton John!
It’s stupid.
Jimmy Buffett has no reason to be singing anywhere. If he and his parrot shirt showed up at my Nana’s nursing home to perform “Margaritaville”, I would not allow Nana to attend karaoke. More so, what do parrots and margaritas have to do with Wrigley Field? Unless the parrot is drunk on margaritas and constantly repeating the name “Paul Assenmacher,” I see no similarities.
Let me touch on Sting for a moment. Any man whose claim to fame is being on the radio EVERYTIME I am in the dentist’s office has no reason to be playing a concert inside one of sports’ greatest shrines. He and the Police treated centerfield almost as badly as Michael Tucker.
My problem with the Billy Joel and Elton John concert is very simple: I love Billy Joel and Elton John. I respect their music. I think they are two of the greatest musicians of our time. I don’t want to get angry with them, but I have to.
I am a firm believer that Wrigley Field was designed for one reason: baseball. Hockey was never supposed to be played there and it was. I didn’t watch, but a lot of people who want to pretend they like hockey did. Football wasn’t supposed to be played there, but it was. I can handle that. At least football and hockey are sports, therefore they have an affiliation to baseball, but why must we have concerts by rock stars who have no affiliation? Isn’t that why we have the Allstate Arena, United Center, Sears Centre, and UIC Pavillion?
Elton John’s closest affiliation to the game of baseball was the sequined Dodger uniform he donned in 1975. To me, that’s not a strong enough resume to play Wrigley. Strike one. He also is British. The British play cricket, not baseball. That’s strike two. Strike three? Well, you guessed it: “Daniel”. Terrible song. Can’t stand it.
Billy Joel also has three strikes against him. Number one, he is the only person in history to play Madison Square Garden, Giants Stadium, Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium. He is a New Yorker, born and raised. His idol was Billy Martin (judging by his driving record, I can see why). I don’t need to hear a New Yorker telling me how much he loves my ballpark.
Strike two: He has a daughter with Christie Brinkley. How the hell did that happen? He’s 5’5. He looks like Jessica Simpson sat on his face and flattened it, and he marries Christie Brinkley? It may be a personal vendetta, but its strike two.
Strike three is a very easy, simple strike. It’s not cool to be a Billy Joel fan. I’ve loved his music for a long time, but I can’t tell anyone that. A bald headed, pudgy 60 year old man, who is married to a 26 year old woman, sitting behind a piano singing the lyrics “you catholic girls start much too late” doesn’t make it cooler.
Wrigley Field is at 1060 W. Addison. It is the home of the Chicago Cubs. It has hosted great moments like the Homer in the Gloamin’, Sammy Sosa’s back to back 60 homerun seasons (and his Flintstone vitamins), and my personal favorite: Bruce Froemming taking it to Milt Pappas. I implore the Cubs organization not to allow concerts by soft rockers to ruin the legend of this great place. Leave that to the idiots throwing garbage on the field. At least when they ruin the ambiance I don’t have to hear “Daniel”.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am supposed to write a little something about myself, Brendan Green. Now, really I know all about me, so you would think it would be pretty easy for me to do this, but it’s tougher than you would guess. I write under the name “CTB” because it’s a nickname of mine. I didn’t give it to myself. I don’t allow people to give themselves nicknames, and nor should you.
Baseball gets my blood boiling, my smile widening and my pants tightening. I watch as many Cubs games as my not busy schedule allows.
My favorite athlete of all time is former Cub first baseman Mark Grace. He drank, he smoked, and he played a mean not-so-hot corner. Second place would have to be former White Sox catcher Ron Karkovice. Since his face looked like it had been set on fire and put out with an old golf shoe, he worked wonders for my self esteem.
I don’t watch much ESPN, or listen to too many of their commentators. If I had the option however, I would wish constant laryngitis upon Chris Berman.
Why should you read my blog? Well you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can’t force you to do anything. But, if I were to suggest you read it, it would be for the following reasons:
I don’t know what I’m going to talk about before I write it, and sometimes after I read it, I still don’t know.
I have a set of rules in my head that I feel all people should follow, such as no one should answer anybody else’s cell phone, and hugs hello should be outlawed. The main problem with these rules is that I am the only one who knows them.
Finally, because I’m just like you. I’m not a professional; I’m simply a 24 year old man with opinions, thoughts (coherent and incoherent), feelings, observations, and a sense of humor. Sadly, all of those characteristics set me apart from about 90% of the population of this Earth.
If you decide to read my blogs, I thank you. I welcome your opinions, your kudos, your complaints, your questions, and your requests for marriage. If you do not read it, then so be it. But let me forewarn you, Chris Berman has never said anything close to as creative as what I will.
-CTB
“Wrigley Concerts hit sour note”
It may just be me, but I have always considered Wrigley Field a Mecca of baseball. Something about watching steroid induced men in tight striped pants play America’s game against a backdrop of ivy has always given me a tingle usually reserved for a Topanga sighting on “Boy Meets World.” I try to attend at least 15 Cubs games a year because I enjoy Wrigley so much. I have always thought of it as a nice place to relax and escape. But lately, something has been happening to my ballpark…something strange is going on at Clark and Addison….they’re playing music inside and it’s not Gary Pressy at the Lowery Organ. It’s Jimmy Buffett! It’s Sting! It’s Billy Joel! It’s Elton John!
It’s stupid.
Jimmy Buffett has no reason to be singing anywhere. If he and his parrot shirt showed up at my Nana’s nursing home to perform “Margaritaville”, I would not allow Nana to attend karaoke. More so, what do parrots and margaritas have to do with Wrigley Field? Unless the parrot is drunk on margaritas and constantly repeating the name “Paul Assenmacher,” I see no similarities.
Let me touch on Sting for a moment. Any man whose claim to fame is being on the radio EVERYTIME I am in the dentist’s office has no reason to be playing a concert inside one of sports’ greatest shrines. He and the Police treated centerfield almost as badly as Michael Tucker.
My problem with the Billy Joel and Elton John concert is very simple: I love Billy Joel and Elton John. I respect their music. I think they are two of the greatest musicians of our time. I don’t want to get angry with them, but I have to.
I am a firm believer that Wrigley Field was designed for one reason: baseball. Hockey was never supposed to be played there and it was. I didn’t watch, but a lot of people who want to pretend they like hockey did. Football wasn’t supposed to be played there, but it was. I can handle that. At least football and hockey are sports, therefore they have an affiliation to baseball, but why must we have concerts by rock stars who have no affiliation? Isn’t that why we have the Allstate Arena, United Center, Sears Centre, and UIC Pavillion?
Elton John’s closest affiliation to the game of baseball was the sequined Dodger uniform he donned in 1975. To me, that’s not a strong enough resume to play Wrigley. Strike one. He also is British. The British play cricket, not baseball. That’s strike two. Strike three? Well, you guessed it: “Daniel”. Terrible song. Can’t stand it.
Billy Joel also has three strikes against him. Number one, he is the only person in history to play Madison Square Garden, Giants Stadium, Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium. He is a New Yorker, born and raised. His idol was Billy Martin (judging by his driving record, I can see why). I don’t need to hear a New Yorker telling me how much he loves my ballpark.
Strike two: He has a daughter with Christie Brinkley. How the hell did that happen? He’s 5’5. He looks like Jessica Simpson sat on his face and flattened it, and he marries Christie Brinkley? It may be a personal vendetta, but its strike two.
Strike three is a very easy, simple strike. It’s not cool to be a Billy Joel fan. I’ve loved his music for a long time, but I can’t tell anyone that. A bald headed, pudgy 60 year old man, who is married to a 26 year old woman, sitting behind a piano singing the lyrics “you catholic girls start much too late” doesn’t make it cooler.
Wrigley Field is at 1060 W. Addison. It is the home of the Chicago Cubs. It has hosted great moments like the Homer in the Gloamin’, Sammy Sosa’s back to back 60 homerun seasons (and his Flintstone vitamins), and my personal favorite: Bruce Froemming taking it to Milt Pappas. I implore the Cubs organization not to allow concerts by soft rockers to ruin the legend of this great place. Leave that to the idiots throwing garbage on the field. At least when they ruin the ambiance I don’t have to hear “Daniel”.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I am supposed to write a little something about myself, Brendan Green. Now, really I know all about me, so you would think it would be pretty easy for me to do this, but it’s tougher than you would guess. I write under the name “CTB” because it’s a nickname of mine. I didn’t give it to myself. I don’t allow people to give themselves nicknames, and nor should you.
Baseball gets my blood boiling, my smile widening and my pants tightening. I watch as many Cubs games as my not busy schedule allows.
My favorite athlete of all time is former Cub first baseman Mark Grace. He drank, he smoked, and he played a mean not-so-hot corner. Second place would have to be former White Sox catcher Ron Karkovice. Since his face looked like it had been set on fire and put out with an old golf shoe, he worked wonders for my self esteem.
I don’t watch much ESPN, or listen to too many of their commentators. If I had the option however, I would wish constant laryngitis upon Chris Berman.
Why should you read my blog? Well you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I can’t force you to do anything. But, if I were to suggest you read it, it would be for the following reasons:
I don’t know what I’m going to talk about before I write it, and sometimes after I read it, I still don’t know.
I have a set of rules in my head that I feel all people should follow, such as no one should answer anybody else’s cell phone, and hugs hello should be outlawed. The main problem with these rules is that I am the only one who knows them.
Finally, because I’m just like you. I’m not a professional; I’m simply a 24 year old man with opinions, thoughts (coherent and incoherent), feelings, observations, and a sense of humor. Sadly, all of those characteristics set me apart from about 90% of the population of this Earth.
If you decide to read my blogs, I thank you. I welcome your opinions, your kudos, your complaints, your questions, and your requests for marriage. If you do not read it, then so be it. But let me forewarn you, Chris Berman has never said anything close to as creative as what I will.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Welcome
Hello, and welcome to movie phone. Please select the name of the movie…Sorry, wrong script.
Thanks for coming by. I don’t want to get too Dickensian on you, so this will be brief. I started the site as a way to tide me over financially until my professional Jai-Alai checks start coming in.
Blogs are a dime a dozen, or cheese sauce on a Packers fan so I’ve attempted to dress this puppy up a little. The goal of the site is for the five of us to twist and prod and poke and do everything except tighten up the rubber glove on different issues in sports and society.
Don’t expect numbers or rumors. There are five distinct, creatively disturbed minds to expound on just about anything.
Every weekday the blog will be updated with a new post. Most work Monday through Friday, so look at this as a way to fill the wasteful time of convincing yourself the snaggle-toothed secretary with the tear drop tattoo will be better looking after a few drinks. The writers have no guidelines on what they have to write about so expect a little of everything. We welcome comments, questions, theories and any sort of nonsense you might be willing to offer.
Enjoy the show.
Thanks for coming by. I don’t want to get too Dickensian on you, so this will be brief. I started the site as a way to tide me over financially until my professional Jai-Alai checks start coming in.
Blogs are a dime a dozen, or cheese sauce on a Packers fan so I’ve attempted to dress this puppy up a little. The goal of the site is for the five of us to twist and prod and poke and do everything except tighten up the rubber glove on different issues in sports and society.
Don’t expect numbers or rumors. There are five distinct, creatively disturbed minds to expound on just about anything.
Every weekday the blog will be updated with a new post. Most work Monday through Friday, so look at this as a way to fill the wasteful time of convincing yourself the snaggle-toothed secretary with the tear drop tattoo will be better looking after a few drinks. The writers have no guidelines on what they have to write about so expect a little of everything. We welcome comments, questions, theories and any sort of nonsense you might be willing to offer.
Enjoy the show.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
