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The Wife calls me a sports snob. It’s a term I have come to embrace because it’s true: I don’t like talking sports with most people because most people are idiots. Well, maybe idiots is too harsh of a term–they’re not as knowledgably as me (probably because they have families and lives and all that stuff). Remember that time when I went to the Angel game and I was appalled because the “fans” next to me had no idea who Mark Teixeira was (or how to say his name)? Yeah, stuff like that.
My snobbery is only part of my problem. I work at an elementary school that literally has three male employees (the AP, custodian, and me). Sure, it’s nice knowing I pretty much have a private bathroom (although messy situations become harder to deny), but it also leaves with me a sports void because I have no one to talk to. Being a sports snob and trying to discuss the read option with a pregnant fourth grade teacher isn’t exactly fulfilling. Even if I tried to dumb myself down just for the sake of talking to another human being it wouldn’t be possibly.
I’ve tried keeping an open . . . . .
Hockey tradition dictates thou must’n shave thy beard until thy team is eliminated from the playoffs. I’m not much of a fan of hockey, but I certainly like the tradition (one of many hockey traditions I enjoy including hitting guys with sticks and dating women way too hot for you). Since I am a proponent of tradition, I adopted that philosophy towards a sport I actually care about: baseball.
I don’t talk about it much, but I’m a huge Yankee fan. It’s one of the traits I inherited from my father. I grew hearing stories about Mickey Mantle and how much my father wanted to change my first name to Bucky Dent. When I was five and started playing t-ball, I was thrilled to be on the Yankees (although, three of the four teams in the league were named Yankees). Interests come and go. People drift in and out of your life. Seasons change. People get older. Life goes on. The one thing that remains my consistent is my Yankee fan love (and an unhealthy Derek Jeter obsession).
That’s why every October I wear a playoff beard. Some years, the Yanks go deep and I go a month without shaving. . . . . .
The most unrealistic thing about “2012” is that the producers expected us to believe a black man could be voted president in the United States.
Damn. That joke woulda been a lot funnier two years ago.
I think I might be a softball snob. I’ve been playing the game for so long, I have so many expectations and ideals that few people can live up to. I don’t want to go around thinking I’m better than anyone else. I don’t enjoy feeling like something is below me or inferior. But when I see a softball that doesn’t live up to my standards I’m horrified.
During the summer we brought a new guy out to our Thursday night softball team. He had an ad on Craigslist and I figured, why not? Dude said he had experience and could play an “ugly shortstop” if we desperately needed. He sounded like a great fit for our team because he seemed like a good guy and we have always valued character over talent on our team.
But when he came out to the game, it was painfully obvious he was not a good player. His mechanics were terrible, he made bad decisions on the . . . . .
My softball game last week was very strange.
That’s a horrible opening! The game wasn’t strange–it was a softball game. Strange is a 280-pound linebacker singing Ashlee Simpson songs in a mall while wearing a tutu. The game was noteworthy–but certainly not strange.
The biggest (and most noteworthy) event occurred when one of our players dislocated his shoulder while jogging around the second base. Mr. Fudge slipped for no obvious or apparent reason and landed awkwardly on his left shoulder. Everyone knew he was hurt bad immediately after it happened because quickly took himself out of the game. He walked back to our dugout and was in obvious pain; his face was trembling and he grimaced with every breath. “Does anyone know how to pop it back in,” Fudge asked.
Half the team told him to let a doctor do it; the other half was in shocked by the repulsiveness of the question (that sorta bravado is reserved for fictionalized action movies–not overweight, outta shape schleps who play softball). “No way,” someone said. Another person called him nuts. Someone else asked for Dr. Nick. There were a lot of chaotic suggestions thrown out until Wagon spoke up.
“This is what . . . . .
I read an article about a woman who was hit by four separate cars while trying to walk across the freeway (and you thought you were having a bad day). The first car hit her and pulled over. As the woman started to get up, another car hit her. A third and fourth car hit her as she was lying on the road. Needless to say, the pedestrian didn’t make it (further proof people are not cars and shouldn’t be walking on the freeway).
But the part that stands out most to me is two of the four drivers drove off without sticking around to make sure she was okay or talk to the police. I gotta hope there’s a special place in Hell for people that hit someone with their car and drive away because they don’t want to be held liable for their actions. I understand if someone robs a liquor store because they need the money. I can relate to someone who kills their wife for the insurance money. I can even fathom stabbing someone over a pair of sneakers. But I have no sympathy for the people who ran over this gal on the freeway. After . . . . .
Sitting at home on a Friday night, I managed to stumble across something wonderful on the television. I’m sure everyone has heard of the Lingerie Bowl–but did you know there’s actually Lingerie Football League? It’s was the most entertaining thing I’ve seen in months…and not for the reasons you’d think.
The LFL is horrible, hideous, and the most pathetic business venture I’ve seen since my parents decided to open up their own restaurant. The football was beyond bad. The announcers took their job too seriously. And the uniforms looked like a pathetic attempt at creating risqué Halloween costumes. Maybe it’s the part of me that loves watching a train wreck, but I couldn’t look away. I found myself laughing, crying, and wishing I had a bunch of buddies over so I could watch the spectacle with other train wreck fans.
Where do I begin? Wow. Speechless–I feel speechless. I don’t know what to mock first!
I guess we’ll start with the football. As gridiron junkie, I can appreciate good football like a Frenchman saviors a fine cheese. What these girls were playing couldn’t be called football–ten-year olds play better football than what I saw (at least 10-year olds try . . . . .
Real quick. I’m going with Eagles vs. Patriots in the Super Bowl. I decided it last week before the weekend games but never got around to writing it. My Eagle prediction looks shaky given McNabb’s injury, but I made this before the season started and gotta stick with it (plan B: the Giants). As usual, I never pick the Super Bowl winner because anything can happen in a single game.
I am obsessed with Tetris.* There–I said it. I played the game religiously as a kid on my Game Boy. I sacrificed many dates and opportunities to interact with real human beings because of Tetris. I would rock out to the Tetris theme in my bedroom. I even wanted to name my firstborn child Tetris. Tetris was the video game equivalent of crack. I can’t even begin to guess how many months of my life I wasted playing Tetris (we’re way beyond hours and days). There were other video games, but nothing could compete with the rush I got from a game of Tetris. It was a staple–I took my Game Boy with me everywhere I went because the great thing about Tetris was its closure: a game of . . . . .
This semester I decided to take a soccer class at the university. My foray into kinesiology was motivated by two factors: 1) I couldn’t get into the classes I wanted and 2) I got nothing better to do. I skipped softball because I’m already a master of the sport. Basketball wasn’t going to fly because short white men can’t dunk. I knew if I took yoga I’d probably break something (most likely my back). Soccer felt like the right choice because it’s a game I love and I had nothing to lose.
I haven’t played soccer in about 15 years. Despite its absence, I love soccer–played it throughout the majority of my youth (my father was Italian so it was only natural I learn the family tradition). Many kids played soccer when they’re four or five years old; very few continue playing after the age of 12. Hardly anybody plays in high school. Not only did I play soccer in my late teens, I did so at the expense of other traditional high school activities (such as football, girls, or summer vacation). The last time I played soccer was in high school and I was looking forward to getting on . . . . .
Remember that movie “White Men Can’t Jump?” Rosie Perez broke up with Woody Harrelson and for some reason he was really upset about it. Woody reflected upon the break up by saying “Sometimes when you win, you really lose. And sometimes when you lose, you really win.” Not only does that apply to breaking up with Rosie Perez, it can also be used to describe rec league softball.
In the city which I play softball, there are about 50 teams a night. Since the teams represent a wide range of talent (über competitive tournament squads to church-sponsored rookie teams), the league is broken up into divisions of six teams. The good teams play against the good teams. The bad teams play against bad teams. Every division winner is crowned “champion” and wins a t-shirt at the end of the season (and now you know my motivation for playing).
At the start of every season, each team plays what’s called a ‘classification game.’ The results of that game determine which division you’ll play in. My Tuesday team has been around a long time and we’re in the upper-third divisions of the city. When a new team comes into the league, they . . . . .
I liked all sports, but always believed that football was the best. I always longed for football season and Sundays glued to the TV. But this year felt different–I’ve been longing for baseball ever since October. At least twice a week since Christmas, I’ve said out loud “I miss baseball.” I come to realize baseball is my true love and my favorite sport. Now with this whole Arod announcement–to realize what I love is fake–it makes me feel sick.
Now that I’m unemployed, I have a lot more time on my hands and decided to do a little research. Why am I so upset? Why am I bothered? Because steroids cheated the game of baseball. Not just the retired players who saw their milestones passed, but the fans. The game we’ve been watching the past 15 years isn’t what baseball is supposed to be. Look at some of the stats I’ve managed to accumulate.*
The top six all-time single-season home run hitters have ties to steroids. Name HRs Barry Bonds 73 Mark McGwire 70 Sammy Sosa 66 Mark McGwire 65 Sammy Sosa 64 Sammy Sosa 63 Of the top 24 single-season home run hitters, 14 happened after 1961 (when Maris . . . . .
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