Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sports. Show all posts

Monday, November 28, 2022

If Sports Teams Were Honestly-Named 3

The naming of american sports teams reflects american character - so let's rename our teams, with truth as the trophy!

BASEBALL

New York Yankees = New York Greenbacks

Los Angeles Angels = Los Angeles Gangs

Washington Nationals = Washington Lobbyists

Houston Astros = Houston Diversities

Miami Marlins = Miami Fire Ants

Milwaukee Brewers = Milwaukee Burpers

Pittsburgh Pirates = Pittsburgh Greens

St. Louis Cardinals = St. Louis Murderers

Baltimore Orioles = Baltimore Statues

Boston Red Sox = Boston Crows

Los Angeles Dodgers = Los Angeles Riot

Minnesota Twins = Minnesota Scalpers

Cincinnati Reds = Cincinnati Unrest

New York Mets = New York Stonewalls

Tampa Bay Rays = Tampa Bay Kickbacks

Toronto Blue Jays = Toronto Horseshoes

Atlanta Braves = Atlanta Embers

Oakland Athletics = Oakland Panthers

Seattle Mariners = Seattle Technocrats

Texas Rangers = Texas Rednecks

Chicago Cubs = Chicago Boys

Cleveland Guardians = Cleveland Rockers

Chicago White Sox = Chicago Black Belt

Arizona Diamondbacks = Arizona Sweaters

Colorado Rockies = Colorado Ski Bums

Philadelphia Phillies = Philadelphia Bosses

San Diego Padres = San Diego Gropers

Detroit Tigers = Detroit Bankruptcies

Kansas City Royals = Kansas City Tornadoes

San Francisco Giants = San Francisco Hippies

Sunday, November 27, 2022

If Sports Teams Were Honestly-Named 2

The naming of american sports teams reflects american character - so let's rename our teams, with truth as the trophy!

BASKETBALL

Washington Wizards = Washington Plaintiffs

Los Angeles Clippers = Los Angeles Smog

Brooklyn Nets = Brooklyn Hipsters

Golden State Warriors = Golden State Lovers

Oklahoma City Thunder = Oklahoma City Derricks

San Antonio Spurs = San Antonio Drive-Bys

New Orleans Pelicans = New Orleans Jazz

Denver Nuggets = Denver Mushrooms

Boston Celtics = Boston Bigots

Sacramento Kings = Sacramento Bleeding Hearts

Memphis Grizzlies = Memphis Plantations

Minnesota Timberwolves = Minnesota Lakers

Portland Trail Blazers = Portland Progressives

Utah Jazz = Utah Inequities

Dallas Mavericks = Dallas Snipers

Los Angeles Lakers = Los Angeles Starlets

Houston Rockets = Houston Whitneys

Phoenix Suns = Phoenix Kidnappers

Milwaukee Bucks = Milwaukee Redliners

Cleveland Cavaliers = Cleveland Rollers

Atlanta Hawks = Atlanta Leafs

Indiana Pacers = Indiana Steelers

New York Knicks = New York Pigeons

Philadelphia 76ers = Philadelphia Movers

Toronto Raptors = Toronto Yorkies

Chicago Bulls = Chicago Strikebusters

Miami Heat = Miami Cruisers

Orlando Magic = Orlando Rats

Charlotte Hornets = Charlotte Millennials

Detroit Pistons = Detroit Carjackers

Friday, November 25, 2022

If Sports Teams Were Honestly-Named

The naming of american sports teams reflects american character - so let's rename our teams, with truth as the trophy!
FOOTBALL
Buffalo Bills = Buffalo Snowplows
Miami Dolphins = Miami Mules
New York Jets = New York Hacks
New England Patriots = New England Caucasians
Baltimore Ravens = Baltimore Miranda
Cincinnati Bengals = Cincinnati Crackers
Cleveland Browns = Cleveland Flammables
Pittsburgh Steelers = Pittsburgh Mallers
Kansas City Chiefs = Kansas City Blues
Los Angeles Chargers = Los Angeles Scalpels
Las Vegas Raiders = Las Vegas Bookies
Denver Broncos = Denver Queens
Tennessee Titans = Tennessee Twangers
Indianapolis Colts = Indianapolis Skidmarks
Jacksonville Jaguars = Jacksonville Geriatrics
Houston Texans = Houston Problems
Philadelphia Eagles = Philadelphia Boors
Dallas Cowboys = Dallas Frackers
New York Giants = New York Loopholes
Washington Commanders = Washington Genocide
Minnesota Vikings = Minnesota Mosquitos
Detroit Vikings = Detroit Foreclosures
Green Bay Packers = Green Bay Cheeseheads
New Orleans Saints = New Orleans Landgrabbers
Chicago Bears = Chicago Fishbait
Tampa Bay Buccaneers = Tampa Bay Tourists
Atlanta Falcons = Atlanta Segregators
Carolina Falcons = Carolina Klansmen
San Francisco 49ers = San Francisco Gentrifiers
Seattle Seahawks = Seattle Buzz
Arizona Cardinals = Arizona Deniers
Los Angeles Rams = Los Angeles Casting Couches

Thursday, May 11, 2017

"Pete Rose"

(My Prison Without Bars)
-pete rose, with rick hill
2004
If you've never read a book about sports (and perhaps never wanted to), this might be the exception you should make. And not for any reason that will be obvious to 99% of readers...to most, this will be just another mindless jock book. But if you have a keen eye for the human condition, this book occasionally (and perhaps even unintentionally) touches upon a kind of honesty that not one writer in a hundred comes near. There are moments of self-revelation that are viscerally frightening, perhaps all the more so because it never strays far from the macho attitude.
If i tell you that pete rose is a sociopath, can you understand that i'm not singling him out? That we are all of us in some degree sociopaths, and it is only up close that his breathtaking inhumanity stands out?
Words are manipulations, and pete never strays too far from his primary motivation - to convince you that he's remorseful, that he's served his time (in prison literally), and as his crimes were so much less toxic to baseball than steroids, would we PLEASE allow him into the Hall of Fame already? He's angry about the hypocrisy with which he's been treated, and it's a fair point. He maintains that he never for one second compromised the integrity of the game, and you're inclined to believe him.
To that i say...well, whatever. Awards and honorifics don't mean much to me.
But the visceral part of this book is in how pete genuinely tries to come to terms with his sociopathic side. He never uses that word, but he talks openly of his inability to perceive the feelings of others (or himself). It's obvious he's been in therapy, and the term "oppositional/defiant" is invoked often. You do get the sense that beneath his bravado, a part of him is genuinely ashamed, mostly because his dead father never would have approved of lies. He speaks of his father in heroic terms...and while you want to admire that, you also realize that something in pete's childhood was cripplingly dysfunctional. And again, pete is not unique in that regard. In this culture of fear and alienation, we are all of us irrevocably damaged by the time we're adults.
The final chapters fall back into the self-mythologizing, ain't-it-great-to-be-me nonsense that every other sports memoir offers up. But on the way to that place, there are some detours that are disturbing and...admirable.

Friday, December 20, 2013

sister-kissing

"Winning isn't everything. Men, it's the only thing!"
-Coach Red Sanders
"A tie is like kissing your sister."
-Coach Eddie Erdelatz

It would be hard to overstate the impact that the culture of sport has had on american society. Particularly among white men, whose voice was for so long America's only one. Having myself been a white male (the five longest minutes of my life), i ought know of such things. Our national values are those embedded in the turf of our fields of play. And nowhere is the essence of those values more revealed, than in our attitude toward tying. There was once a time when a tied game was an acceptable result of a well-played contest. A round of handshakes, with no chins held low. We gave our all, and found ourselves and our foe not lacking!
Seen many ties lately?
Like toll booth collectors, they've done disappeared.
Even as a youth, i could see the writing on the wall. Despite our zeitgeist's one nod toward a more noble philosophy of competition, journalist Grantland Rice's "It's not that you won or lost but how you played the game", it seemed from an early age that i was the only one among my peers taking those words to heart. I also had the good fortune to have a father who set an excellent example of how not to act. His hyper-competitiveness made backyard family games a fascinating study in people surreptitiously scrambling to NOT be picked for the winning side. The short-tempered dressing-down that was sure to follow any slip-up by one of his teammates, was a treat no one wanted. I can't recall him quoting Sanders directly, but Erdelatz's words sprang readily from his mouth. To this day, if he plays a game that ends in a tie, but has no provision by which a single winner may be then decided, he'll quickly invent one.
Why has the tie disappeared? Why is America more uncomfortable with tying, than outright losing? Is it something to do with the Vietnam war? We pulled our last soldier out in 1973. Was it a coincidence that in 1974, as football was eclipsing baseball to become our national sport, sudden death overtime arrived, heralding the end of all that tying nonsense? I remember murmurs as a child, that we didn't LOSE Vietnam - we tied. Losing was that alien to us. Did the seeds of our national disgust with anything other than winning start there? Was our nascent superpower ego so fragile? Or was all of it simply a reflection of the superpower mentality itself? As our nation was on its way to becoming as powerful as the rest of the world combined, did we have to tweak our national identity to rationalize that?
The winner must be crowned. The loser must be shamed.
How good does winning feel in this world? At the risk of putting too fine a point on it, Nobel winners and sports hall of famers live an average of two years longer than their non-winning peers. Oscar winners live four years longer than nominees.
A study of olympic athletes' facial expressions on the medal stand found that only two of the three medalists regularly register as "very happy". Gold and silver, perhaps? Try again.
The winning sickness isn't confined to America, of course. The world over, males have made tie-aversion a central part of most games. And they're ever so clever at coming up with ways to avoid that unseemly result - overtime, rematches, penalty shootouts...even something ominously called "aggregate point difference". Do you suppose there's a cheerleading squad somewhere with a kickass aggregate point routine? We got aggregate point difference, yes we do...
And if all those methods fail, some sports ties are decided by, well, coin toss. I apologize for calling males clever.
But to be sure, the american obsession with winning runs singularly deep (The pre-eminent world sport, soccer, is still a veritable hotbed of tying activity - damned commie socialist sports pinkos!). I originally thought i would cap this article with a list of history's most memorable ties, but then i realized that you, the reader (and even i, the writer, mayhap) might be tempted to decide which was the BESTEST, COOLEST TIE EVER! Are we that far gone? Of course we are. Never mind that any sensible person knows you learn more about yourself when you lose. Never mind that losing is immeasurably more character-building.
As i grew, i kept my spirit vigilant against the sickness. I knew i was swimming against the current. Trying to live by Rice's credo in this society is a little like trying to save a wet moth from the ocean. It can't fly, so you hold it with one hand above the water as you swim for shore. Society is the twenty-foot wave that suddenly appears. The funny thing is, somewhere along the line, i became an ardent competitor. I think most sensitive people react to the winning sickness by washing their hands of it. Avoiding the competitive arenas, eschewing hyper-competitive games. But i've adapted by becoming a fierce competitor...who cares not one whit who wins. Perhaps i need to prove to the world that excellence needn't care about victory. On the sporting field or gaming table, it may seem like i'm pushing you. But i'm only pushing myself. And yes, i realize this paragraph is overflowing with water metaphors. That's just me challenging myself (or another writer) to pen a single organic paragraph with even more! Do it, i dare you.
There are also plenty of contexts though, in which my disinterest in winning is blatantly evident. With many games, i'm the one who suggests ditching the score-taking altogether.
Many enmeshed in the winning sickness, or disgusted by it, interpret my often spirited play as a sign of competitiveness. When i explain my actual focus, some refuse to believe, not wanting any worthy competitor to be a traitor to Hemingway's bullshit machismo. Others just can't trust any kind of competitiveness. Some think i'm fooling myself, and that deep down i want to win as urgently as anyone.
Tain't so, i promise.
There is no more joyous result for me than the roller coaster of a dramatic, tightly-competed game...that ends in a tie. The more winners, the more i like it.
Sometimes you win.
Sometimes you lose.
Sometimes no one wins. Or everyone.
Sister-kissing has nothing to do with it.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

escape from planet earth!

Picture three people in a room. One is eating, one is reading, and one is injecting heroin. What would you say if i told you all three were engaging in the same basic activity?
For this to make sense, one has to accept the following premise - every human you've ever met has been in about fourteen different kinds of pain, of which he or she is conscious of maybe three. The society humans have constructed over the past ten thousand years has strayed so very far from our most basic nature, that you have never met a healthy human. If you met one such, you might be amused or shocked, but you wouldn't recognize yourself in this creature. It is only through layers of rationalization and denial that modern humans are able to function at all. There is compelling biological, archaeological, and other scientific evidence to support this premise. This article is about none of those.
This article is about behavioral evidence.
This article is about escape.
How does a creature in pain respond? By trying to make it stop. If that proves impossible, the creature will try to escape that pain as much as they can.
If you step back and look at behavior objectively, you'll suddenly see around you a world of humans who are trying to escape reality virtually every single day of our lives.
This isn't about obvious escapes, like a flophouse full of strung-out addicts. This is about a universe of behaviors that affect our brains in the same way as "drugs". This is about adrenaline. Stimulants and sedatives. Dopamine and endorphins. I won't insult your intelligence by listing the things in this world that might render one anxious or depressed. I won't ask what percentage of people know that their most basic life-sustaining and intimacy needs, will always be met.
Or even met tomorrow.
Here are the ways that humanity is in a constant state of trying to flee this planet. And here are the drug realities that underlie them all.
FOOD
Oh, what a surprise - when we eat sugar, fat, or salt, our bodies powerfully reward us with feel-good brain chemicals (dopamine, a neurotransmitter with a hotline to the brain's pleasure center, and opioids, psychoactive chemicals which induce a feeling of euphoria). Chocolate and spicy foods promote the release of endorphins (neurotransmitters that reduce sensations of pain). You know the line about food not being love? In terms of brain chemistry, that's a lie - food IS love. Even though culinary highs pale in comparison with an orgasm or first kiss, no cookie ever made someone feel rejected or worthless. Food isn't love? I'm sure everyone's gotten that memo - but it seems a whole lot of people aren't impressed. And i won't even go into caffeine, other than to say thank you America, but i've avoided the amphetamine-style monkey you offered me as a child. Nine out of ten people aren't so lucky, but them's the breaks.
ADRENALINE
"Adrenaline junkies". So often the truth slips out in moments of glibness. All those testosterone-filled types chasing highs in unimpeachably legal ways. Get those dudes on a commercial! Um, except for the gamblers, that's not so macho. Adrenaline is a hormone that causes a rise in heart rate and body glucose. It constricts blood vessels and dilates air passages, making us hyper-responsive to stimuli. Any chance that under conditions like those we'll remember our miserable love lives or unpaid bills? No, we didn't think so. Get us a parachute/snowmobile/motorbike/bungee/four-wheeler/gun-with-one-bullet, stat!
RELIGION
Does religion feel good? Yes. Does it take us out of ourselves? Great googily, yes! How much further outside your own reality could you get than focusing on an invisible creature with the power to do ANYTHING? Do not underestimate god. Neurologically-speaking, for a believer, god (or its childhood equivalent, the imaginary friend) is just as real as any living being...which can obviously be immeasurably rewarding, given that each believer exercises complete control over god's identity inside their heads! On a more basic level, here is what religious thought does to the brain - it renders the anterior singulated cortex (the part of the brain that controls anxiety) less active. That sounds nice. Just be careful with this drug. Long-term faith has been linked to atrophy of the hippocampus, which can lead to depression and Alzheimer's.
HUNTING & SHOPPING
I put these two together because of the ridiculousness (but also, sadly, accuracy) in the stereotype of the old couple - she can't understand his obsession with hunting or fishing, and he can't understand the unending hours she spends shopping. Yes, mensaites, it's actually the same activity. Dopamine production is similarly stimulated in both. On a good day, both activities add adrenaline to the mix. Hunters are accused of being insensitive to the animals they slaughter, but if that were literally true, hunting would be far less popular. Indeed, it is the subconscious awareness that prey animals think and feel in much the same way as us, that makes hunting attractive. Put another way, if hunters knew that their prey were emotionless machines, many would become bored. The awareness that prey think and feel makes hunters relate to them, because hunters can imagine being hunted. It is this identification that feeds the adrenalized aspect of hunting. Any hunter or fisher who was truly blind to the suffering of other animals would be a full-on sociopath (as opposed to the semi-sociopaths we all are).
PORN/SEX/LOVE
The brain activity in pornography addiction is identical to drug abuse.
An orgasm is the simultaneous activation of pleasure pathways, and deactivation of defense pathways. Seeing an attractive stranger fires no less than four separate pleasure-related neurotransmitters. The chemicals in semen relieve a woman's anxiety or depression, and lessen her pre-menstrual pain. A woman having regular sex will become addicted to these chemicals.
In the second stage of falling in love, elevated levels of the neurotransmitter serotonin may render us temporarily clinically insane. In the third stage, release of the hormone oxytocin makes us feel profoundly pacified in the presence of our poopsie. Romance triggers the same part of the brain as cocaine.
Drugs, drugs, get your drugs here!
And if you're still unsure about the enormity of our need for escape, and the fact that for the most part it's each other that we're trying to escape from, look up a nifty little psychological condition called objectophilia.
TOUCH
Even more crippling than the sexual repression we endure in this society, is the touch deprivation. A simple hug sparks a wave of endorphins. Touch is the most immediate, effective, and safe drug. Science is only beginning to understand how we need it as much as water or air. Yet in regular social interaction, romance is the only place we sanction abundant physical intimacy, making it an unforgiving battleground in which we constantly balance reward with anxiety. So our bodies subconsciously drive us toward alternative outlets. How many who can afford regular massages, don't indulge? How many enjoy regular manicures, pedicures, or haircuts? How many of us have never NOT had a pet? How many have entered (or stayed in) a romance we didn't really want? Love is the drug? Yes, but touch is the better one.
PAIN
Do people like pain? Apparently we do.
Masochism as a way of life.
People who repeat self-destructive behavioral patterns, over and over.
Floggers and cutters.
High-altitude mountain climbers. Rugby!
The psychology behind finding pleasure in pain is a complicated thing. Both sensations emanate from the same brain centers, so there is an element of subjectivity involved. One of my lovers loved being bitten hard. Does that qualify her as a masochist? Does the fact that it gave me pleasure to please her, make me a sadist?? Nonetheless, an affinity for pain is often about conscious or subconscious self-loathing. A way of dealing with guilt or shame over what others have done to us, or what we've done to them.
Yet sometimes too, pain is simply nothing more than one hellaciously effective escape mechanism. Putting your entire nervous system on overload? A never-fail ticket to leaving all your worries behind.
RECREATIONAL DRUGS
Uncomfortable with my lumping "hard" drugs in with a roller coaster or pie? Get over it. While i don't deny that breaking a reality TV addiction is easier than getting over crack, the stimulation of particular brain centers is a goal that can be achieved in an almost infinite number of ways, and no drug expert would claim that psychological considerations aren't a big part of any addiction. It might be helpful to simply consider hard drugs as just the first escape mechanism to be "outed" in our understanding of addictive behavior. Nor is it only a drug's effect that delivers us out of life - it's also how others treat us when we're under some influence. Whether happy buzz or acid trip, nobody chooses that time to have a "we need to talk" moment with us (and even if someone is reckless enough to do so, you'll hardly be held accountable for your response). For a creature trying to escape pain, that alone is worth the price of any ticket.
ALCOHOL
Alcohol stands apart from other recreational drugs, but not because it doesn't belong in their category - it does. If you've ever used the phrase "drugs and alcohol", implying that they're not the same, you have a deficient grasp of pharmacology and cultural relativity. That said, alcohol gets to stand alone, because no other drug allows you ALL THREE drug escapes, and often at the same time. Alcohol allows you to feel good, bad, or both, on the way to feeling nothing at all.
SMOKING
The first few cigarettes of the day affect the same part of the brain as heroin and cocaine, and can boost your mood, suppress anger, and enhance concentration. Hardly news. But an unspoken function of cigarettes as an escape mechanism has nothing to do with nicotine. Every time a smoker lights up, particularly in public, they're rewarded with a few minutes of untouchability. No matter how shitty things are, they'll be left alone for that little window of time. For all the whining smokers make over their status as social lepers, a part of that is insincere. Many are as addicted to those five minutes away from the world, as they are the nicotine.
MUSIC
Depressed people suffer from low serotonin. Music stimulates serotonin production. It also stimulates endorphins, and has a salutary effect on the healing process. For someone who's spent a lifetime avoiding the weaknesses and pitfalls of drug use, this one irks me a bit. I'm just a sad junkie after all.
BOOKS, MOVING PICTURES, VIDEO GAMES
Do you know why we love movies and books? Why they arouse such passion and devotion? Because our brains don't know the difference between fantasy and reality. Studies have shown that doing an activity, or just thinking about doing it, triggers the same brain response. Have an athlete win a race, or just think about doing so, and her mind won't know the difference. Hence, we have the ability to bond with fictional characters just as deeply as any real person, but with one very important difference. Fictional characters will never, ever, ever, EVER turn on us. The comfort they provide today, they'll be ready to provide thirty days or thirty years from now - no questions asked. Are you beginning to understand why the average person spends NINE ENTIRE YEARS sitting in front of a television? It's the greatest drug ever, and nothing comes close. Understood this way, what percentage of the people imprinted in your memory as your dearest friends, are people you never met, or never even existed? Video games are a fascinating development of the genre. And it's here where the premise of this article takes on its most frightening weight. Video games go one step beyond fiction or fantasy - in video games, you're no longer YOU, and actions (even the most hideous) have NO consequences (except in our minds, which can never forget). Under those conditions, video game players spend hours, even days, in uninterrupted play. What level of misery must a life be in, to spend days pretending to be someone else? And i won't even get into the hyper-violent nature of video games. Unraveling that psychology is a multi-layered, even contradictory mess. But can we all agree that people who are strongly drawn to graphically violent fantasy are dealing with some powerful demons?
SPORTS
Just as alcohol stands apart, so too does spectator sports fill a gap that goes well beyond the escape of "normal" television. Humans are social creatures, and any who don't get enough social intimacy will become off-balance. Unfortunately, male indoctrination has traditionally produced enormous intimacy issues. The average male simply doesn't have the emotional tools needed to react with others in a healthy manner. This is profoundly obvious in the dysfunction of romance, but not so clear in male/male relationships, and a huge part of the reason is...sports. The bonding that males experience therein, is a substitute for actual emotional intimacy. Sports becomes an enormous source of passion, such that it's very often the only thing males are truly comfortable talking about (whether among strangers or those one has known for decades). And talk they do! For hours - team prospects, statistics, fantasies, favorite players, favorite games, even sports-related social issues. Competitive urges can be safely sublimated. And sports is the ultimate piggy-back drug. Is there any setting more natural for the serial downing of beer, beer, beer? For many males, high fives and chest bumps are the only real male physical intimacy they'll ever know. While watching a game, the adrenaline rushes and heartbreaks are a veritable ocean of brain chemical emotion. Now if only some genius could find a way to inject sex into sports. Wait, i've got it! Naked women jumping around on the sidelines! What? Too obvious?
CONCLUSION
Can you picture a close-at-hand future when all psychological profiles (or...shudder...dating profiles) will prominently feature "escape mechanisms" on the list of characteristics? Is it easy now to think of any person you know (including yourself), and break down their life in terms of escapes?
This list is far from comprehensive, of course. Our electronic modern media cocoons are the very definition of social isolation, false camaraderie, and escape. There are workaholics, cult members, comedy junkies, greed junkies, charity junkies, serial killers, trekkies, and a billion other escapees out there.
At this point, the reader might be inclined to say, "Wait...all these activities damn near encompass EVERYTHING humans do! It seems like you're pathologizing life, wrob. What about the simple desire for pleasure? Isn't a certain sensate hedonism just part of what it means to be human?" To that i answer, yes. But it's all about context, and need. We're biologically constructed to be pleasure-seekers, but we're not psychologically constructed to need pleasure (or pain, or excitement, or numbness) as a never-ending escape. A certain amount of escape is natural, too...we are creatures of imagination. But when escape becomes the only thing that makes life bearable, something has gone terribly off-balance.
Put another way, try to imagine how you would feel if you were cut off from your own favorite escape mechanism, suddenly and forever. Might you not become sad and withdrawn? Agitated and anxious? Edgy and short-tempered? Might not your behavior be indistinguishable from any "junkie" in withdrawal?
What then, is the answer? A continued search into what it means to be human. Our species' self-awareness is still in the infancy stage. As science continues to learn about our essential needs, physically and psychologically, we'll continue to understand just how dehumanizing is this world we've created for ourselves.
And in a more immediate sense, awareness of our profound investment in escape mechanisms can help us cope when they take over our lives. Addiction has very little to do with willpower, or the lack thereof. If you find a certain behavior (or substance) has you in a seemingly unbreakable grip, remember the word "replace". You'll never quit any addiction without replacing what it brings to your life. Holes will always demand to be filled. But fill them you can, with behaviors over which you can exert more control. Those words may seem idiotically simplistic to someone with a painkiller addiction...but Alcoholics Anonymous aren't nearly as dumb as they seem. Fill someone's brain with the power of community, get them hopped up on daily doses of religion...it may be borrowing from peter to pay paul, but you'll more closely resemble a functioning human being. And be less likely to set yourself on fire, or wake up naked in the mayor's gazebo. Or some such.
And i adore the phrase "painkiller addiction", by the way. It's got to be the most unintentionally-revealing addition to the english language in the last century. It describes exactly who and what we are, as a people.
Painkiller addict?
You've never met someone who wasn't.

P.S. In the seconds after publishing this online, i felt one of the sweetest drug rushes of my life. We found another one...

Thursday, August 16, 2012

olympic innovation! (pt. 2)

I have an idea which will improve the entertainment quality of the Olympics, while simultaneously providing a richer appreciation of the amazingness of the athletic feats being witnessed. In every individual event, there should be one average joe or jane inserted, picked at random from the population of the host country. Watching your local baker Al chugging out a nineteen-second 100-meter dash, will perhaps make you more suitably awestruck by those sub ten-second scores. Watching Ms. Mousopolos, kindergarten teacher, notch a "DNF, rescued by hook" in the 200m breaststroke, will make her a greater hero in the eyes of her kids, and provide a rich source of YouTube material for everyone else. And each host country should be obligated to field a contestant or team of non-athletes for any event in which they have no entry. Think how much fun that will be when we get a host country with no water polo team.

pitch count

If i never hear the term "pitch count" again, it will be none too soon. If you want to know how idiotic this term is, imagine a ringside boxing manager yanking a fighter who reaches 100 punches. Old Hoss Radbourne is rolling in his grave.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

Yanksockies

Dear Yankees, Red Sox, and Phillies (or as i like to say, New York All-Stars, Philadelphia Yankees, and Boston In-The-Black Sox),
I'm very sorry to hear about your recent departures from the race to become this year's world champions. My condolences to all of the fine people who represent your athletic clubs. As Aunt Lola always says, keep your peckers up. I'm sure you're each just one more plundered all-star away from returning to the pinnacle of your sport.
May i suggest, however, a new approach to the perrenial problem of how to be the very best in a system that (unlike that commie football league with its fancy-pants salary cap) makes no pretense to fairness?
I offer, for your consideration, the New Haven Yanksockies. Were you to merge your three ball clubs into one, the embarrassment of losing a divisional series to some payroll-challenged team that doesn't know it's supposed to lose, will be erased forever. It's even possible you might never lose a game again. I know, i know, that seems a bit heavy-handed, but we've done studies on the fans in Boston, Philly, and New York, and their capacity for shame is virtually non-existent - a full 93.8% said they would eagerly attend a game in which their team had no chance of losing. Fans in your fine megalopolis would flock to your new 500,000-seat stadium in New Haven, Connecticut (a compromise location between your three excellent municipalities). It would have a monstrous green outfield wall, the Phanatic roaming the field between innings, and a picture of George Steinbrenner's face on every seat.
Of course, some of the stars on your fine clubs will have to adjust to being bench players. This will work out smoother than you might fear...the fact that these players signed with you in the first place should tell you all you need to know about their values and integrity. Tell them it's for the good of the team and the greater glory of the Henry/Montgomery/Steinbrenner families, then pay them all fifty million a year. Trust me, you'll be able to afford it.
You might be tempted to include the other member of the big four, Chicago, in your plans, but that's an agony no one needs. The Mets are tempting too, with their geographic proximity and payroll four times greater than loser teams like Tampa Bay...but every great team needs a whipping boy, and numbers don't lie. There are few things Americans love more than watching a New York team take it on the ass.
I know that melding this many egos into a cohesive unit will be a challenge. It's possible that bickering and power grabs may prevent this merger from even getting past the negotiation stage. In that event, here's my backup plan, which would sadly leave out the nice folk in Philly and Boston. Please tell the general manager of the Yankees (New York, not Philadelphia), Mr. Cashman (No really...is that his name? Come on, really?), that he could trade just one of his players, a certain Mr. Rodriguez, for the entire roster of the Kansas City Royals. I know, i know, if the Royals had anyone worth having you would have bought them long ago...but just between you and i, Mr. Cashman, i'd look into this one. Word on the street is that your Mr. Rodriguez is a cheater. And i ain't talking about Madonna (rim shot!). I'm sure your fans would be outraged if they ever thought for one second that any of their twenty-seven championships were come by unfairly.
The Yanksockies. One team. A payroll of 511 million dollars, in a league where the other teams would average 84 million.
What, my friends, could be more American than that?

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

14

I had two heroes during my childhood.
My grandfather and Pete Rose.
Growing up a boy in an Ohio small town during the seventies, you were expected to have an opinion on which Cincinnati player was the best on the Big Red Machine. Seeing how many chose the bopper, Johnny Bench, i chose the scrapper: Charlie Hustle. I modeled myself on the guy with the dirty uniform, always giving everything. I suppose i may have already had an inkling that i was never going to be the biggest of the bunch, so the choice made sense in that sense too. As Cincinnati was on the other side of the state, i think i only ever saw the Reds play live once, but that hardly mattered. Pete's 44-game hitting streak in '78 had me glued to the paper...and no less so the day after the streak ended. The first sports poster to ever hang on my wall was #14.
I cried (well, not literally, boys didn't cry in our house) when Pete was traded to the Phillies in 1979. I was eleven. I went into a limbo, not wanting to be a Phillies fan (Dad's team!), but knowing i could never not root for Pete.
And then...a stroke that almost seemed like divine intervention, which cemented my boyhood affection forever. Six months after Pete was traded, Dad got a promotion necessitating a move to the Philadelphia suburbs.
I thought about the ways the move might affect my life...but my first thought wasn't about any of that.
Pete went to Philadelphia.
Me too.
His Philly years were great. The teams were bursting with personality. Dad took us to at least one or two games a year. We named one of our dogs, the best dog ever, after Pete. In 83', ex-Reds Joe Morgan and Tony Perez came to town. I wasn't a Phillie fan officially, but when they won the championship in 1980, Dad told me to get my trumpet. He got a pot and ladle. We took to the street, blowing and banging.
When Pete was traded to the Expos in 1984, i was sixteen and discovering creative passions that were far more exciting than sports had ever been. I was still sad though, not imagining i'd be moving to Montreal. When he returned to Cincinnati later that year to be player-manager, i was delighted...he was back home. I happily followed his final three seasons as a player. My memory is hazy, but i remember being keenly aware of his .300 lifetime batting average being endangered. It may have even dropped to .299 for a week or two. I almost wanted him to retire, rather than risk sub-.300. When he dropped the "player" from "player/manager", i continued to follow the Reds. In 1988, i acquired one of the most cherished possessions of my life. A couple years before, my father had met hall of famer Stan Musial on an airplane, and they ended up having drinks together when they landed. Stan sent four signed baseballs to us, one for each of the kids. Remembering that the NL career hits record had belonged to Musial before Pete, i thought how amazing it would be to have both of their signatures on the same ball. During my sophomore year of college, Paul Kleba, one of my dorm buddies, told me he was going to a Phillies/Reds game, and would be seated near the field. He told me he could get Pete's signature on my ball. I happily trusted him, and got more than i bargained for. The ball that returned to me had signatures from Musial and Rose...and Johnny Bench.
And......
Shane Rawley.
Paul said that Rawley was standing with them when it was signed, and offered to sign too. How do you say no to a major leaguer, he said?
I love that ball, and somehow i love Shane Rawley too.
Then in 1989, darkness fell on Pete's career.
Fired as manager.
Banned from baseball for life.
For betting on the game. The implicated sin was that he bet on Cincinnati while managing them. Was i at least allowed to assume he bet on them to win?
I remember not being particularly outraged. I didn't say anything against him, nor did i rush to his defense. I didn't feel particularly compelled to have the "truth" revealed. Strange reaction for a high holy advocate of honesty. Even now, i wonder why it wasn't handled differently. Why wasn't he given the chance to quietly resign, with an unspoken lifetime ban? Pete's banishment dragged the sport down as much as his own reputation.
But then, it's possible that just such an arrangement was offered, and arrogantly rejected.
As for the debate over whether he belongs in the Hall of Fame...i hesitate to come down hard on either side of that issue. It turns my stomach to think that steroid users will be elected, yet without doubt some already have. It's hard to imagine anything Pete might have done that doesn't pale in comparison. But...if we were to place his actions on another manager, say Tommy Lasorda, i'd swiftly support a lifetime ban. Take it one step further however, to propose that Lasorda had a separate Hall-worthy career as a player, and i'd have a hard time justifying his ineligibility.
These days, when Dad asks whether i'd like to visit the Hall with him, i tell him i'll not set foot there until Pete's in. Is part of the reason my growing apathy toward spectator sports as a grownup? Sure. But there's truth there too.
I'm just someone who had a boyhood hero. Might i not like that hero in person? Of course. But that's beside the point.
The point is that in my own hall of memories, he'll never be banished.
He'll always be in some corner of my spirit.
Hustling.

Monday, September 14, 2009

whiplashed!


I had another match this week, in my career as a professional wrestling patsy. My opponent was amber. She was wonderful, i connected with her as well as i have with any of my tussling partners. She was very centered and present, perhaps because she was, like taylor, another "pro" (my other opponents have been amateurs)...though i'm hazy about what that even means. She said she gets $300 an hour, and that she had six private sessions scheduled for one day. Is she wrestling women? I believe she is, but that didn't quite seem to be what she was getting at. My best guess is that there are men who pay women to come to their homes to wrestle them, for real.
If so, i am beyond sad that we live in a world where children starve to death, while jackasses who might make a difference, piss it away.
Anyway, amber was wonderful. She was an inch or so taller than i, and forty or fifty pounds heavier. She was bright, and with her shock of blonde hair, she worked the amazon thing very nicely. She wasn't as sculpted as taylor, but she had serious martial arts training, plus genuine warmth and a sense of fun. Just after we started, our director kasey had us start over, as we were enjoying ourselves too much.
The match, however, did not go well.
Of course i lost...that's a given, but we didn't give kasey the performance she was hoping for. We were only supposed to go five or six minutes, and it felt like it was even shorter. Kasey stopped us a second time, because i wasn't being dominated enough. In addition, i walked away more wounded than in any previous match. I sustained injuries to neck and jaw, possibly even a mild whiplash. It took three days for my neck to feel mostly right again.
Before the match, kasey told amber that i was very strong, and that she could go all out with me. I approved of her sentiment...indeed, it's possible i might have made a similar comment myself, in the spirit of "bring it on" fun.
But amber may have taken kasey's words too much to heart. Was this what kasey had meant about it sometimes being "real"? I was still certain i was supposed to lose...no other option seemed credible. But any time you have two people "battling", where one is creating a performance and the other is being real, you're probably inviting trouble. Stage combat is hard enough when it's fully choreographed, but in an improvised match, you'd better have two people who are very in control, and scrupulously focused on safety.
Part of the reason amber wasn't dominating me 100% was that i was trying to make things believable and exciting. I wasn't supposed to make it look too easy for her. Perhaps this is a fine point which kasey needed to explain...maybe i was going for a longer battle than what she wanted, a battle where amber "wears me down" until i'm spent and she has her way with me. I was trying to build to that. But in the midst of it all, i found myself having to add an element of genuine self-defense. Some of amber's clinches were hurting. I can't say that she wasn't holding back at all, but there were a couple times when i was literally fighting my way out of a hold that hurt. In my match with taylor, which i suspect looked "realer", nothing ever hurt.
The neck strain happened when i jerked away while she was "cradling" my head. The jaw strain came when she had my head in a leg clinch. Another time, my bicep began hurting like hell because of her weight on it. She also did an arm disjoint hold that hurt. When kasey interrupted, amber gave me a gentle jab for not holding back. She was wrong - i was! But still in all, kasey wasn't getting the fight she wanted, and when it resumed, she directed us to a quick finish. Quick and unsatisfying.
I can't be too hard on either of us, though. If she thought i wasn't holding back, then her behavior was understandable. And when you don't have time to practice or give each other feedback, the results are always going to be a little unpredictable.
After the match, while we were shooting some poses, our dripping bodies kept making hysterical fart noises from the way we were pushing against each other.
And when it was over, i was again tantalized by the thought of going all out. What does it say about me that i dream of wrestling women who are my superior in size and skill?
Did i mention that i've given myself a professional name?
I'm Killer Cupcake.

Saturday, September 12, 2009

swimsuit issues

To turn away from that you have loved...
As a tender youth whose intimate sexual experiences were hypothetical, living in a society where the naked human body was taboo (though other mammals were acceptable), the yearly arrival of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue was an anticipated, tingly event.
During those teen years, i was subconsciously glad that my brothers were pre-teens. Among my family, i had no interest in sharing the idea that i might like to watch semi-clad women. To dwell on a substitute when you're not getting the real thing was not the kind of person i wanted to be, nor was it the image i wanted others to have. The SI subscription was Dad's, and he made an occasional appreciative comment regarding this mid-winter cheesecake fest. My response was mostly non-committal. But when i was home alone, i looked at every page. Well, it was already in the house, it wasn't like i had gone out to acquire it myself. And it was in a magazine with a high level of literacy (trust me, you don't want to know what a sports magazine with a low level of literacy, moral or otherwise, looks like).
My window of innocence lasted for two or three years, before i could no longer ignore the awareness that something was rotten in the Seychelle Islands (or wherever they were cavorting). In those years, the shiniest star in my swimsuit firmament was Kathy Ireland. The two-page shot of her lying on a bed of yellow flowers, wearing one half of a white bikini, is an image burned into that part of my brain where SEX beams brightly.
But for someone like me, in a battle between lust and moral indignation, don't wager your last penny on lust. To SI's credit, they usually published (albeit faintly condescendingly) one of the yearly protest letters, and eventually gave subscribers the option of not receiving the issue at all, but i didn't need those things to tell me what i already knew.
Integrity was important to SI. Were it not so, i'd not still skim the magazines when i visit Dad; i'm sentimental, but rarely to a fault. They took on tough issues, and their best writers cared, not merely about sports, but about the world.
All of which made the swimsuit issue more painful.
And the question that would not be ignored was this: what do fashion models in bathing costumes have to do with the world of sports? The resounding answer echoes back: NOTHING...nOtHiNg...nothing...
Sigh.
They even listed the prices of the bathing suits, which was curious, as i don't remember them ever listing the price of Darryl Dawkins' athletic supporter.
Had someone waved a magic wand, and turned SI into a fashion magazine? A travel brochure? Whatever it was, there was one thing it clearly was not.
So what's wrong with looking at semi-clad women?
Not one little thing. Despite well-intentioned, misguided protests, that day in 2000 when the Australian women's soccer team released a naked calendar was a beautiful moment in the rise of the human spirit.
But within the context of SI, a softcore porn issue of non-athlete females has nothing to do with sport...and if for some men it does, this is born of a very disturbed place. The issue is no less than a dire insult to every woman who's ever lived. It proclaims to the world, "THIS is how we'll celebrate women in a magazine devoted to sports!" If you grasp anything about the subjugation and dehumanization of women over uncounted millenia, and your brain is bigger than a pea, then the reality of the swimsuit issue will eventually turn your stomach. During the era of the issue's popularity, women have been marginalized in the world of sport, as in every public forum. But female athletes have been achieving feats as wondrous as their male counterparts, and in truth moreso, living in a world which taught women to not be strong, especially physically. Yet in those decades in which the issue has thrived, what percentage of SI's articles were devoted to women? Is there anyone who doubts that if you counted up all the SI covers to ever feature a woman, fashion models would outnumber athletes by a chasmic margin? This is the message SI wishes to give? Don't be an athlete, just look like this, and we may celebrate you? This is the message they've chosen to drum into the head of every little girl (and boy) who ever glanced at a cover?
I don't envy the burden of shame the people at SI carry. I'm sure that some have borne it with a heavy heart. Perhaps they were told, in ways subtle or overt, that the swimsuit issue outsells all others, and without that money the magazine mightn't be able to maintain its high standards the rest of the year. For anyone who's ever bought that argument, return to the rock from under which you crawled.
It's been curious to see SI haltingly acknowledge this reality. They eventually included occasional shots of legitimate female athletes, and even a handful of famous-athlete beefcake shots (provided of course that there was always a scantily-clad woman hanging on them). In doing these things, they pointed to the only way they can save themselves.
For i come not to bury SI. It's time to send the models back to the dying industry from whence they came (i know that to many, fashion doesn't seem like a dying industry, but that's because they have not the eyes to see).
Ought SI continue celebrating the beauty of the human form? Sure! But make it that most sublime form, the athlete. You wish to devote one issue a year to beauty? Give us the same athletes you celebrate the rest of the year. And not just the women, give us male and female in equal measure! You already know that female athletes will line up, and if you think appealing to the vanity of professional male athletes will be a tough sell, then they've had you hidden away in the bullpen for way too long. And give us a taste of all athletes, to remind us that physical excellence is not confined to those with sculpted physiques! When you're really ready to take your place as a torch bearer of human progress, you'll move past our childish nudity taboos, too.
So that someday decades from now, a naked John Daly will be imprinted on some person's brain as indelibly as Kathy is in mine.
And the world will be well.

Friday, May 15, 2009

to (almost) wrestle a woman



There are benefits to being 5'10" and 135 pounds. The most delightful i've discovered? Being paid to wrestle scantily-clad women.
Of course you may have to lose these matches, but that, dear friends, is a trade-off to be embraced.
These are not public affairs, at least not the events themselves. Present are the two grapplers, the director, and perhaps a video technician. I'm assuming the videos end up on some "women dominating men" website, but don't know for sure. Some of the women may even be clients, paying for video resume material. I don't know. When you're being paid to wrestle semi-clad women, details don't burden your brain.
I've gotten hassled in my life for being "too thin" (though no doctor has ever thought so). If this gig is recompense for my grief, then i'm giggling to glory. Look upon me, for you may not see my like again. Enough height to make the average woman look small, enough muscle to be adored by artists, but my weight is easily hefted by a strong woman.
The director, kasey, is charming and bubbly. There are different levels of intensity in this world i've entered. My first partner was a professional dancer, and first-timer like me. She wore a bikini, and i a thong. Whatever "love at first sight" is, i got a nice dose. My heart feels a little light, just remembering. She was physically and spiritually beautiful. Not much upper body development, but enough. We filmed eight lifts...fireperson carries, baby cradles, and such. She carried me around, flexing and smiling. We did a few arm wrestling matches, which she "won". I put on a good show, got $20, and kasey told me there would be more money for future shoots.
My second partner could only do the easiest lifts. I didn't connect with her as much. Kasey asked us to try some mock wrestling. But how wonderful, i'd be delighted! We practiced a few moves, and then i let her, um, manhandle(?) me for a few minutes. We had a couple lines of dialogue, in which i established myself as a chauvinist bore. She didn't remember all the moves, but we put on an adequate show.
And then...then...
Then came taylor. Sweet taylor from Charlotte (pictured above). A most gracious belle. I felt comfy in her presence right away. When she donned her bikini, my poor eyes took in what was clearly my strongest partner yet. She was maybe 5'6" and non-steroidal, but there was muscle density everywhere...yet with a soft quality. She was more at ease than the others. She was in town for a few days, and had one other "event". It occurred to me that the other event might even be the real thing. Kasey asked whether i'd be comfortable if taylor took off her top. I gently assured her i would have no problem with that.
After a few quick lifts, we got right into it.
And she didn't hold back.
Well...she did, i guess. But whereas my previous bout had been 40% real, this one was more like 80%. She squeezed the stuffing out of me in some of her holds. It was at once intensely satisfying, yet also ever-so-faintly torturous...to be so close to real, yet hold back...i'm not even 100% sure i could beat her. The desire to know whether i could was a tantalizing thought, as were the sexual fantasies i had that night. I didn't even have time to notice when she took her top off (getting your ass kicked convincingly requires a commitment to performance).
She wrapped my head in a thigh squeeze, and the hearing in my right ear became blocked for six hours. I got matching bruises on my biceps, from her knees. If you've never had a bicep bruise, they look like a little cluster of grapes. While i was in one of her knee-to-arm pins, she taunted me while grinding her pelvis into my face. One of the greater moments of my life? Yup. Somehow through it all, she retained a core that was sweet and loving.
The bout lasted ten minutes, and finished with an amazing flourish. She hoisted me onto her shoulders, bounced me a bit, then tossed me backwards. I slapped into the mat like a sack of Idaho's best. Her performance skills were just so rich...i knew that i had to see the video, a thought which hadn't occurred with the others. Kasey told me i'd see it soon, and i asked whether she did matches that weren't staged. She said yes, and that there are women a level above T, tiny dynamos with martial arts training who can go thirty minutes without breaking a sweat. I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to guess whether i agreed to move on to that level.
Do i love New York?
I'm too busy laughing to answer.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

sports

I grew up in a sports household. Perhaps not as "rabid" as some, as neither my siblings nor i played high school sports...although i suspect we enjoyed our backyard volleyball as much anyone ever enjoyed any game. Inside, it was spectator sports. We followed our teams, enjoying inter-house rivalries. It was a big part of the life of my father, brothers, and i (but of course not Mom and sis). Dad exposed us early and often - i have wonderful memories of trips to Veterans Stadium to see the Phillies (i'm sure there's never been a better mascot than the Phanatic). Sometimes Dad had fancy seats, but we preferred the nosebleed sections - you could jump around. On TV, it was football, basketball, and baseball (Dad loved hockey, but the goonishness rubbed me the wrong way). Hardly any of us shared a favorite team in any sport. This was in part because of contentiousness. Dad rooted for Philadelphia teams, and because of the nature of our relationship, it was a given that i wouldn't.
In baseball i followed the Reds because i lived in Ohio from five to ten, and was exposed to the excitement of the Big Red Machine. I remember schoolyard debates over who the best Reds player was. For me, it was always Pete Rose. Charlie Hustle. The five years he was a Phillie (and his one season in Montreal) are the only years of my youth i wasn't a Reds fan. Reading the sports section was a big part of my passion, moreso than my brothers. In baseball particularly, it was always about my favorite player. I cared about the team, but was more concerned with how Pete did. After Pete it was Eric Davis, then Barry Larkin, then Ken Griffey, Jr. Reading my Dad's weekly Sports Illustrated was a beloved part of those years. I loved Frank Deford. Whenever one of our teams made the cover, it would go up on the wall of the Pit, our sports-themed TV room.
In football, i chose my team based upon what would annoy my Eagle-loving father the most: the Cowboys. Tom Landry was possibly the most dignified human ever. My favorites were Dorsett, Staubach, Randy and Danny White, Bill Bates, Too Tall Jones, Herschel Walker...and later, though i loathed Jerry Jones and initially Jimmy Johnson too, i reveled in the teams of Aikman, Smith, and Irvin. The Cowboys were so well-covered that most weekends their game was televised. We would all get decked out in our team's shirts...i think for one big game i had on no less than seven articles of Cowboy paraphenalia. Once or twice we even hung scorecard banners over our garage. Dad would let us stay up to watch Monday Night Football, and the magic of Cosell and Meredith was a joyous thing. On Thanksgiving, we would leave the dinner table to watch the game (a gesture which separated the men and women, and one which i felt increasingly ambivalent about as i got older).
I felt my first excitement for basketball when Magic joined the Lakers in 1980. Those showtime teams, and the rivalry with Boston, inspired loyalty which has lasted to this day. I knew those 80s squads inside and out.
I remember the moment of epiphany when my love for spectator sports began to wane. In my first year of college, i had put up posters in my dorm room of my favorite players, and one day i looked up and said "why"? Why did i have huge pictures of people i'd never met, most of whom were overindulged and overpaid, if not steroid-takers or cokeheads? All they did was play a game, something i could do myself anytime i wished. By sophomore year, the posters were gone. I still followed my teams, but less and less every year. A large part of my apathy stemmed from my dislike for voyeurism. And as i grew up, i felt ever-increasing identification with those who were alienated by the male sports culture. Men who were uncomfortable with real emotional intimacy, seeking an outlet. So much passion going into non-participatory mindlessness. If we ever get as excited about Nobel and Pulitzer as we did about Namath and Pele, what wonders will we accomplish?
If i'm reading a newspaper these days, i'll skim the sports section, and i still read Dad's Sports Illustrateds when i visit. Reilly is every bit as wonderful as Deford was, but fewer articles are likely to interest me. Griffey's joined the White Sox, and that's the box score i now seek out...which makes me suspect that when he retires, my baseball devotion may as well. These days i pretty much only watch sports if i'm in the company of somebody who is doing so. It can be nice to re-visit my old teams, but i haven't seen an entire Reds game in many years, and it's by no means a given that i'll see an entire Cowboys or Lakers game each season. If i'm at a Super Bowl party (and that's a big if), i usually end up doing something more social, away from the TV. I was a bit excited that the Lakers had returned to the finals this year, against the Celtics no less, but i think i only saw part of one game. I suspect the lure of sports will never completely die for me...i got sucked into one event this decade, when the Red Sox beat the Yankees to lift the Curse of the Bambino. Schillings' bloody foot, the Yankees payroll an affront to the very concept of fair play, the ridiculously improbable and dramatic games, it was all just...magnificent.
Ambivalence about cherished pieces of one's youth...the price of being born male in the twentieth century.