Tag: sports

I have to confess, there is one group of people for whom I do harbor a pure and unmitigated hate. I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily want to live next to the mentally unstable or have dinner at a cannibal’s house, and while the only pagan religious ceremony I’ve attended was disappointingly tame, I am a little too well-read in history to be entirely at my ease among pagans.  One always finds oneself on edge against the possibility that they will castrate themselves without warning and cast their liberated testicles at your feet.

But I don’t mind any of them per se.  What I hate is golf spectators.  Peter King, though shaky on many subjects sporting and political, is surprisingly sound on the monsters:

Not a big golf watcher, truth be told. But I watched some over the
break, and I really need to figure one thing out: What is it with
screaming “GET IN THE HOOOOOLLLLE!!!!!” after every tee shot? It was
cute when Bill Murray did it, dweebs. It’s dweebish when you do it on
every tee shot. 

Dweebish?  The term hardly does them justice. When we lived in Ponte Vedra, we were about a decent tee drive from Sawgrass.  Although we were of the Church of Tennis – you have to pick one there when you arrive, Golf or Tennis, it’s the law – we did attend The Players Championship with a friend who worked for the PGA Tour.  It wasn’t a bad way to spend an afternoon, strolling around the course with a drink in your hand, even if you have zero interest in golf. 

But I have never seen a more perfectly annoying group of dorks in my life.  Over the course of the tournament, I gradually went from mild bemusement to moderate annoyance to full blown hatred for them.  As near as I could tell, they count coup by being the first to announce that the ball is going to go into the hole.  But, (and this is the challenge), it is deemed shameful to yell that the ball is going to go in if it does not, in fact, go into the hole.  I don’t know what the penalty is, but apparently it is severe.

You understand the dilemma.  If one waits until the ball is obviously going to go in the hole, someone else will beat one to it.  If one jumps the gun, one will look like an ass. Or, rather, even more of an ass than one already does, being the sort of gentleman who follows a grown man around as if he was the mama duck and one was one of her ducklings.

I suspect I may have witnessed the birth of the phenomenon Peter King describes with such fitting distaste.  One well-lubricated gentleman was loudly pondering the conundrum of when to announce the imminent falling of the ball into the hole as John Daley was preparing to make an approach shot  towards the green where we were standing when a brilliant thought struck him.

“I know, I know, I know,” he told his friend excitedly. “Once the ball gets onto the green, I’m going to yell, ‘get in the hole, Big John’!”

He was roundly congratulated for the perspicacity of his brainstorm, leading me to do some pondering of my own concerning the likelihood that the local home for differently abled adults had been given free tickets to the tournament.  I rejected that on the grounds that the Daley enthusiasts were sporting both Florida Casual and expensive watches, and contented myself with watching to see how the grand experiment would proceed.

The ball had no sooner bounced on the green when the innovator shouted, as promised, “Get in the hole, Big John!” He was clearly the first to raise his voice, as it was at least two seconds before a second shout was heard, declaring, with some degree of certainty, that the ball was indeed on a trajectory that would cause it to fall into the hole.  The ball did go into the hole, to general approval, and the gentleman who had been the first to raise his voice was enthusiastically congratulated by his friends, with considerable high-fiving and back-pounding.

I did not see the man who was robbed of his boldly declarative statement by this cunning maneuver, but I have no doubt that he and his friends stood in slack-jawed awe, wondering how they had been so cleverly bested.  Later that day, I heard the call resound from hole after hole.  “Get in the hole, Tiger!” “Get in the hole, Lefty!” “Get in the hole, Big John!”

Apparently, over time, they have dropped the name, seeing as how everyone understands to whom the ball belongs. Now, you can say that their pastime is harmless.  I won’t disagree. You can assert that they aren’t hurting anyone. I can’t argue with that. You can quite reasonably claim that it isn’t anyone’s business but theirs how and when they cheer. I will not dispute that.

And yet, my loathing for them still burns every bit as pure and as hot as it did on that first sunny Florida afternoon.

The Jets finally release Tim Tebow:

The Jets have released Tebow, the New York Post first reported and the team has officially announced. He will now pass through waivers, meaning every NFL team will have a chance to claim him.

Tebow was widely expected to be on the way out for months, and the only surprise is that the Jets waited until now to do it. The arrival of rookie quarterback Geno Smith in the second round of the NFL draft may have been what it took for the Jets to decide that there was simply no room for Tebow on the roster anymore.

Now the question is whether there’s any room for Tebow anywhere in the NFL.

I think he’s got to go to Canada to prove he can play quarterback. The entire New York interlude was a disaster for everyone involved, although it’s hardly fair to blame the self-implosion of Mark Sanchez on Tebow.

Despite his success in Denver, I just don’t see how he can be successful in the modern NFL. Tebow is a throwback to a time when accuracy wasn’t necessary to have success in the league. He’s basically a bigger, slower, less accurate Michael Vick, which isn’t exactly the ideal quarterback.

On the other hand, he might actually make some sense for the Vikings, since he throws a better deep ball than Christian Ponder and is perfectly capable of handing off the ball to AD.

Possibly the most boring draft ever, in terms of the glamor positions, but still of interest to real NFL fans. I’m pleased with the Vikings picks; three first-round talents at DT, CB, and WR fill the three positions we most needed in the absence of a real quarterback being available. 2013 would appear to be a rebuilding season for the Vikes, barring some serious and unanticipated improvement on the part of Christian Ponder.
Anyhow, this would be your open NFL Draft discussion. Not much else worth mentioning, except for the general lack of interest shown in Geno Smith and Manti Te’o.

One of the greats of NFL broadcasting has died at 82. Fortunately for those of us who enjoyed his voice, he lives on in Maddens, still calling games in that calm, unforgettable baritone.  I remember playing Madden 2001 after he’d retired, and shaking my head, being reminded how even in a video game, Pat Summerall was a better play-by-play man than anyone in the succeeding generation of commentators.

When we read blogs, especially for a long period of time, we tend to assume that we know the writer pretty well and that we have a pretty good grasp of who they are, what drives them, and what is important to them.  And that is at least partially true, but it’s important to keep in mind that one is only seeing what the writer permits them to see.

Perhaps that is an exaggerated, idealized picture of what he truly is, or perhaps it is merely one particular facet of a multi-faceted life.  In either case, the picture we have is at the very least distorted, if not entirely false.

For example, some people have concluded from my regular posts on McRapey that I must care a great deal about the mutual antipathy that has flared up between us. He’s running his little charity operation and has taken full ownership of his Gamma Rabbit persona, I’ve recorded a song with the Pink Rabbit Posse and held up my end of the bargain – perhaps whoever is tracking the donation count for Mr. Scalzi could let me know how many more mentions I have to go before we reach the magic 200 mark that denotes the limits of his charity.  But this is actually little more than one of those blog things that flares up from time to time, runs its course, and so on.  Just as no one accuses me of being obsessed with Me So Michelle anymore, in another nine years nearly everyone will find it hard to recall the name of that science fiction writer with the rabbit rape thing.

Anyhow, the point is that while I have had a bete noire for the last 12 months, it hasn’t been McRapey.  It hasn’t been PZ Myers, or Sam Harris, or anyone else about whom I have written in copious detail.  And yet, I have seen this man when I close my eyes far too many times to count, I repeatedly kick myself for what I did, and what I failed to do on the occasions when I have confronted him, and I replay our various encounters over and over and over again in my mind.

Who is he, this black beast who haunts my nights?  He isn’t a figment of my imagination, he is real, all too real.  He is about 6’2″, late thirties, balding with black hair, a slight paunch, a wide body, and arms that are, at first glance, approximately eight feet long.  He’s strong, but with the thick strength of a manual laborer, not the pumped-up muscles of the weightlifter.

He is the keeper for A Blue, the friendlier of our two main rivals in the soccer league.  I am told he is generally considered to be the best in the league. I don’t know his name. I hate him.

Now, the chances are that he is, like the rest of his team, a very good guy.  They are great sports, they are always amicable, they don’t take cheap shots, and there is a good deal of mutual respect between our two teams.  We are the two-time defending champions while they finished third both years; this year they are in first place and we are struggling in fifth.  Veterans teams are always particularly vulnerable to injuries; I’ve gone from being the fifth option up front to being the number two striker in two years and not as a result of my own merit.

At the end of last season, we had the championship already sewn up, but wanted to close it out on a winning note against them.  The game was tied, 0-0, in the last minute of the game when an attacking defender flicked a header past the defensive line and set me up for a shot inside the area. I broke on the ball and aimed for the upper left corner, but at the last minute, saw the keeper was moving fast to his right, so I tried to change my shot and go upper right.  But my left foot was already moving forward, so the result was that I double-clutched and popped up a weak blooper that he caught without even having to move.  It was worse than pathetic.  It was a grade A choke job.  Everyone told me it was okay.  No one criticized me.  But there were a lot of pained expressions and heads shaking back and forth.  Mine included.

Last fall, we played them at home.  We were losing, 1-0.  Again, in the very last minute of the game, I blew past the defense and broke on a ball passed through by our central midfield.  This time it was on my right. I saw the space the keeper was giving on his left and I didn’t hesitate, I blasted it about chest level just inside the right post.  I knew I’d hit it right.  Only somehow, that damnable keeper dove to his left, extended his gorilla arms, and barely got the tip of a single finger on the ball.  It wasn’t much, but it was just enough to redirect the ball onto the post.  Six inches higher, he can’t reach it. Six inches lower, he doesn’t have a prayer. It doesn’t matter. The whistle blew before we could even take the corner kick.

Two games, two excellent chances, and twice he stoned me.  Twice, I let my team down.  This is the sort of thing that keeps me up at night.

Last night was the first game of the season’s second half.  We were away at their place. We knew going in that we were probably going to lose, as our number one striker and our field general were both on vacation.  But we played them tough, and we even had them worried when my Dutch friend hit the crossbar with a header on a corner kick.  Unfortunately, I blew an easy opportunity by not playing for the rebound because I thought it was going in. 

Although I very badly wanted to score, and the team needed me to score since I was the number one striker by default, I took myself out of the game after the first 20 minutes.  My hamstring was tight, I wasn’t running well, and although I hadn’t lost a single ball, I wasn’t in sync with the midfielders at all.  But without me, our attack faltered and we were coming under continuous pressure, so the coach and I reached the same conclusion at the same time and I went back in with about 20 minutes left in the second half.

That turned the possession game around again, as my runs against their tired defense opened up more space for our midfielders and our defenders started pushing farther up the field.  We started creating some chances, but we just couldn’t finish them.  Then we fell behind 1-0 after their best player beat three of our guys in succession,
hit the crossbar, and their striker was alert enough to follow it in
and clean up the garbage. Right about then, the weather turned brutal, as the wind picked up and a very cold rain that was practically sleet started pouring down on us.  It was the coldest I’ve ever been on a soccer field, and I’ve played on October nights in Minnesota.

Despite the freezing downpour, we kept attacking. It was the only way to stay warm. I blew past their right defender twice, but my first pull-back pass was intercepted and the second time my fellow striker tried to control the ball rather than taking a first-time shot and ended up losing the ball.  Then I tried to flick a header rather than meeting it squarely on a corner – I’m dreadful in the air – and it went wide by about ten feet.

It looked like we were going down to defeat when one of our defenders hit a hard, long pass from about 30 meters away.  Our midfielder slid for it, but missed, and his effort caused the right defender to miss the ball as well.  I ran onto it just inside the box and hit it without thinking, without even looking to see where that damn keeper was.  I could feel it was going in as soon as I hit it; one of my teammates told me afterwards that the keeper didn’t even move.  1-1.  We barely made it back to the circle before the whistle blew.  One shot, one goal. It was the only shot I’d taken all game.

The keeper knows me.  When we shook hands, he said something about how I always wait until the last minute to pester him.  I told him that as far as I was concerned, the score was now 2-1.  He laughed.  It’s on.  It is definitely on. He is winning, but I’m not seeing that blooper or that post anymore.  Now I’m seeing the ball smack soundly into the back of the net. I’m feeling that solid, unmistakable “thunk” as my foot hits it perfectly. Over and over and over again.

That was my seventh goal of the season, and with any luck, I should have my first double-digit scoring season since I played for Nike in my late 20s.  I’m incredibly grateful that I’m still able to play at my advanced age, that I’m still able to contribute to my team, that I’m still able to feel that incredible rush when you put the ball in the net and your teammates come running towards you to celebrate it. But I’m already looking forward to next season, when I’ll get the chance to even the score.  And I’d happily donate a thousand dollars to McRapey’s charities myself if that would somehow buy me a pair of goals to take the lead in that next game.

Although I understand why AD doesn’t like it, I think the trade was a very smart move by the Vikings, and may prove to be an excellent one depending upon how they draft.  Harvin is a fantastic complementary player, but he can never be a player around whom one builds the offense and he needs a deep threat to create space for him to be most effective.

Given his lack of durability, and the fact that the Vikings actually had a better record (5-2) against more difficult opponents when he was out of the lineup than when he was playing, it was obvious that he wasn’t necessarily a vital part of the team. And since his attitude was negative and he wanted to leave anyhow, better to replace him now and get something for him than have one more year of him and watch him walk in free agency.

So, I like this trade much better than I liked the Randy Moss trade with Oakland. It’s probably a good trade for both clubs, although I doubt it will be enough to put Seattle over the top as some seem to think.  I have a lot less confidence in the Kaepernicks and Wilsons of the NFL than most; we’ve seen far too many “reinventing the quarterback” stories end with the backup QB taking the snaps.