Hey All,
Just a heads up...
We've moved My Sports / Complex to the Chicago Tribune's blog site ChicagoNow.com. In short, we pitched the idea and they liked it. Here's why we think this is a good move:
-Increased readership in an established online magazine format, run by pros.
-Better interaction with other sports enthusiasts, bloggers and sports fans.
-Greater visibility
-Easier commenting and feedback on articles.
-Maybe the chance to trashtalk with other fans. Which is nice...
In the future you will potentially see new posts such as short stories, book excerpts and other pieces that don't fit the format of an online sports columnist.
But for now, you can connect to the new blog at either of the URLs below.
http://www.MySportsComplexBlog.com
http://www.ChicagoNow.com/mysportscomplex
Thanks for reading,
Andy
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Book Excerpt: "Single at 36, Expired at 40"
Below is an excerpt and a portion of a chapter from my upcoming book, with the working title, “my sports complex”. It is a fiction piece about Tugg Woodward, a newspaper columnist preoccupied with single life, women, and anything remotely linked to sports.
At age 18 men are long since out of puberty. You're a man. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.
At 19 men realize they're not as “man” as they think they are. You can get a gun license and be drafted to war. You can open up a checking account, and eat as much White Castle as you want without your parents’ permission. But no beer.
At age 21 you get shitfaced and brag about it for a couple weeks. Then you get a summer job; maybe bartending, hopefully not washing dishes or gutting fish.
At age 22 men exit college or have been in a job for a few years. You either begin to hate your crappy job or catch an uppity primadonna’s syndrome called “Senior-itis”
At age 23 men start doing their own taxes, since it’s expected that you no longer rely on your parents to handle this sort of thing for you. If you're 23 and one of those guys who likes to do your taxes, and always has, then you're probably not getting out enough.
At age 25, you're starting to get “serious” about things. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.
At 26 men are supposed to have some semblance of a meaningful job. Respectable furniture, a career maybe, and a car that isn’t totally falling apart. Maybe a few ties and some decent socks too.
At 28 men start to get invited to a lot of weddings. It’s a function of the fact that you’ve got a girlfriend (hopefully) and that she is getting invited to a lot of weddings. In short, her friends are getting married, and her sisters are married, so then you're next.
At 29 men worry about what soon being 30 means. Just like women do.
At age 30 men start to lose touch with popular music. And men’s music-listening repertoire encompasses what music they owned from age 15 to 30. So for me, the collection (some of which is an actual record collection) spans The Smiths and NWA to The Strokes. Which is better than the older single guy next door, whose record collection (all records, that is) spans Foghat to Falco.
Age 33, men shed a sport or give up a habit, maybe two. Or, at least that’s how it’s supposed to go if you're doing what you're supposed to, being married and being responsible. If you're 5 foot 4, you’ll probably give up watching the NBA first. And within a year you won't even know who boxing's Heavyweight Champion of the World is.
At 35 men start to grow unsightly hair from their ears. That’s about it, really.
When I turned 36 I did the usual sports nut thing and took to trying to identify --in my head— any legendary or even prominent athletes who wore number 36. There are a few but not tons.
First and most notable, there’s Jerome Bettis, who wore number 36 with the Pittsburgh Steelers, ending his career with a Super Bowl trophy at age 34. I know a lot about Bettis since he’s a fellow Notre Damer and also because I'm a Steelers fan when they're not playing the Bears. I even had the pleasure of meeting him once at an NFL promotional event. Nice guy.
Other top flight athletes who wear or have worn the 36 are Cliff Lee before he came to the Phillies; Dave Bolland of the Blackhawks; and Brian Westbrook, who wore number 36 over several NFC Championship seasons, a Super Bowl and two Pro Bowls with the Philadelphia Eagles. There’s also Jered Weaver, the All-Star pitcher for the Angels; as well as Shaquille O’Neal, who wears 36 now for the Celtics. Shaq originally wore his favored 32 for the Orlando Magic, and then number 34 for the Lakers, only because they had retired number 32 for Magic Johnson.
There’s also Rasheed Wallace, the wily on-court wildman who wore 36 for the Detroit Pistons after wearing number 30, only to change it back again to number 30 from 36. Wallace even broke 36 technical fouls in a season a couple of times, setting his high in 1999 at 40.
More gentlemanly 36s are pitcher Gaylord Perry, the San Francisco Giants legend, along with Robin Roberts of the Phillies, both of whom had their 36 shirts retired long ago. More obscure, there’s Ohio State’s Chris Spielman, who played for the Lions and now commentates for ESPN. Spielman is also one of football’s great humanitarians. He’s is a consummate class act, a better 36 than Wallace for sure.
On the subject of my hometown Chicago Bears, I was pretty dismayed to find in some internet research that there’s no distinguished Bear who wore 36, not in ’85 during the Super Bowl year, not ever. But an interesting thing happened. What I stumbled upon while trying to find a noteworthy 36 was the score of Super Bowl XX which I kinda sorta had in my head within a couple of points or so. I remember watching as a kid, but forgot the scoreline, just remembering that the Bears won handily. I was reminded, in fact that the Bears beat the Patriots 46 to 10, winning by the Super Bowl by 36.
There are other things that some wouldn’t care about regarding 36 and my 36-year-old’s fascination with #36. Such as the fact that Dennis Rodman was 36 when he won his last NBA title with the Bulls. Or that likewise coach Mike Tomlin won his first Super Bowl for the Steelers at age 36, making him the youngest NFL coach ever win the big one. Or that Wilt Chamberlain’s 36 field goals in a game stands, even today, as a long time NBA record.
Numbers may just be incidental to sport. I think what it is, is that some of us sports enthusiasts have an autistic quality of being able to collect the little pieces of what interests us; it’s an autistic quality that we’re proud of, and one that helps us figure out the patterns of life.
Always terrible with numbers, I am one who is able to remember a player’s shirt number like his face or his stats in a way that suggests that I should have been good at mathematics. For example, if I was given an address to a cookout somewhere, at, say 3144 High Street, I would –knowing that I can’t juggle numbers on their own—translate this address to shirt numbers of notable players, while most normal people would write it down. But me, I‘d pack it away as something like Reggie Miller / John Riggins. That’s #31 for Reggie Miller, a perennial All-Star who played with the Indiana Pacers; and #44 for John Riggins, a Super Bowl champ runningback with the Washington Redskins. Sometimes, this practice pains me, because, dammit, I hate the Redskins.
But maybe it’s not just us fans that catch on to such useful devices. A big deal is made about numbers by the players and clubs too, and even media when they're paying attention.
I remember back in 1995 when Michael Jordan came out of retirement the first time. Since his jersey bearing #23 had been retired by the Bulls, his new number upon his return to the Bulls roster was #45. Number 45 had been his older brother’s high school basketball shirt number, and as the legend goes, the whole reason Jordan took 23 was because he wanted to be “half as good” as his brother was. Certainly, as we saw, #45 wasn’t simply just half as good as #23 was a few years earlier. In fact it seemed like, within a game or two that old #23 was back. In March of ’95 Jordan scored 55 against the Knicks in New York. And later in the fall, a few games into the ’95-’96 season Michael took back shirt #23, and picked up his old, blistering pace.
I could go on for hours Jordan, his stats, and other notable NBA shirt numbers. Eventually though, the irrational sports lover reluctantly comes to terms with the fact –at some point-- that, to the rest of the world, there are more important things than Saturday night’s game.
While some say sports obsession itself is a gender-linked, hard wired obsession, most say age is just a number. Which is true. Age is a number, and a state of mind. So, at age 36 my state of mind must be that you start noticing cool things about the number 36, and little else.
But sports obsessed men are not the only ones who put stock in numbers, using them to their liking.
There’s a theory I’ve recently discovered that seems to be universal in the minds of women, or at least the women that I talk to, and my discovery of it could have something to do with the fact that I'm now just north of age 36, as are many of my own social contacts. Most of my women friends, plenty of whom are single too, have this dangling obsession, like my sports jersey obsession, just the same about a man’s age. Particularly a single man’s age, if “still single”, plays a part in whether he is marketable in the world of eligible females. The difference in this case is that women descend heavily on one particular number, the number 40.
I'm not making this up. I’ve heard plenty of women talk about expiration at 40, and once I first heard about it, I started asking questions.
“What do you think of men who are 40 and never-married?”
And I got feedback. Plenty of it. From the ones that I've polled, the thought is that men over 40 are expired produce. I might even call this whole idea the “40 Year Old Single Rule”, which according to women applies only to men, but not to women. Specifically, the theory goes that all 40-plus still-single men are like bruised fruit at the market, spoiled milk, or skunked red wine. Damaged goods.
But loopholes, albeit small ones, exist. Sure, you might date a single guy at 40 if it was just for fun, for regular easy-access sex. Or maybe you're in Punta Cana with your girlfriends and you meet some nice lad at the tiki bar, who’s nice to look at, has a good personality. Besides, you're only here for another couple days, so who cares. Otherwise, back at home, maybe if you need a date for a double date with a girlfriend, or a stag for a holiday party --especially the dressy kinds where it’s best not to go alone— then, yes, maybe a single 40 guy could have some use. Supposedly a divorced man is a better catch though, as is one who can at least claim a broken off engagement, since each imply at least a semblance of competence and a track record of moving in the right direction.
But according to Cat, Tess, and some of the other female brains I trust, 40/Still-Single men are not the kind of man you set up with your friends or seriously consider yourself.
Sure, the theory hasn’t been officially tested in a controlled environment, or quantified by scientists or gerontologists that I know of. But along with things like the Kennedy Assassination and The Bermuda Triangle, the idea of expiration at 40 is a generally accepted rule. Moreover, The 40 Year Old Single Rule is accepted practice, just like tax accountants use GAAP.
Based on what I have heard, women’s main rationale has mostly to do with one of two things. Specifically, 40 or being almost 40 and always single warns of a couple key things that women consider a major problem:
1)Commitment-phobia. The age-old thought that a man does not want to ever be married or “tied down”. And it is assumed that this specimen, Male #1 let’s call him, is still single because he would rather be a player than a serious mate, or would continue to be a player even if he were to accept the role, officially speaking, as your serious mate.
Paradoxically though, despite the caution advised, one friend suggested her vantage point that flings are OK, since, she says Male #1, is probably good in bed.
2)The second kind, which we’ll call Male #2 is one that is totally, irreparably socially inept.
Male #2 is never-married at 40 because he’s too attached to his mother, has childish hobbies, or focuses on trivial things that demand full saturation of his mind and all of his limited emotions. Hopefully he’s moved out of mom’s house physically, but if so, it doesn’t make much difference. Or maybe he’s just a tad geeky, Quasi Modo-like. Sure, you don’t want to be mean by judging him, but you definitely don’t need to date him, and nor do your friends, even the most hapless and hopelessly single of them.
Then again, at best, he’s married to his job, one to which any woman will always play second fiddle.
He can't hold a conversation and risks boring, nervous, tedious company. He could be prone to temper tantrums or have major unpacked maturity snags that you just don't have the time or energy to deal with. And, I'm guessing, as other women would note, that this one’s probably terrible in bed. Like you even needed a deal breaker.
Beyond those descriptions there are possibly a few legitimate reasons why a man might be 40 and still single. Maybe he’s a poor, lost poet finding himself. Maybe he’s busy taking care of his elderly mother and has a heart of gold. Or maybe because he’s legally a bound slave or serf, beholden to the beck and call of some Roman-style emperor-dictator, witch doctor, or female monarch in a distant, off-the-beaten-path country. Any of which makes him no more attractive to a single girl than either Male #1 or Male #2.
Sounds like a tough rap, being 40ish and single. If you're a man and you have put yourself in this position, you'd better damn well enjoy it or at least not be bothered by the stereotypes about you, right or wrong. Because according to everyone else, unmarried women mainly, it’s like you’ve dropped out of high school and since then have barely held down a pizza delivery job. Or like you’ve done time. Or both.
But that's all according to the prevailing logic. Anyhow, don't ask me, I'm only 36. I've got a few years until they start looking at me with suspicion.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. All the thoughts and opinions expressed are that of the character, not necessarily the creator. And this is all you’re getting about the book for a while.
Written words © 2011 Pics courtesy of the NBA.com store "customize your jersey" tool.
At age 18 men are long since out of puberty. You're a man. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.
At 19 men realize they're not as “man” as they think they are. You can get a gun license and be drafted to war. You can open up a checking account, and eat as much White Castle as you want without your parents’ permission. But no beer.
At age 21 you get shitfaced and brag about it for a couple weeks. Then you get a summer job; maybe bartending, hopefully not washing dishes or gutting fish.
At age 22 men exit college or have been in a job for a few years. You either begin to hate your crappy job or catch an uppity primadonna’s syndrome called “Senior-itis”
At age 23 men start doing their own taxes, since it’s expected that you no longer rely on your parents to handle this sort of thing for you. If you're 23 and one of those guys who likes to do your taxes, and always has, then you're probably not getting out enough.
At age 25, you're starting to get “serious” about things. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.
At 26 men are supposed to have some semblance of a meaningful job. Respectable furniture, a career maybe, and a car that isn’t totally falling apart. Maybe a few ties and some decent socks too.
At 28 men start to get invited to a lot of weddings. It’s a function of the fact that you’ve got a girlfriend (hopefully) and that she is getting invited to a lot of weddings. In short, her friends are getting married, and her sisters are married, so then you're next.
At 29 men worry about what soon being 30 means. Just like women do.
At age 30 men start to lose touch with popular music. And men’s music-listening repertoire encompasses what music they owned from age 15 to 30. So for me, the collection (some of which is an actual record collection) spans The Smiths and NWA to The Strokes. Which is better than the older single guy next door, whose record collection (all records, that is) spans Foghat to Falco.
Age 33, men shed a sport or give up a habit, maybe two. Or, at least that’s how it’s supposed to go if you're doing what you're supposed to, being married and being responsible. If you're 5 foot 4, you’ll probably give up watching the NBA first. And within a year you won't even know who boxing's Heavyweight Champion of the World is.
At 35 men start to grow unsightly hair from their ears. That’s about it, really.
When I turned 36 I did the usual sports nut thing and took to trying to identify --in my head— any legendary or even prominent athletes who wore number 36. There are a few but not tons.
First and most notable, there’s Jerome Bettis, who wore number 36 with the Pittsburgh Steelers, ending his career with a Super Bowl trophy at age 34. I know a lot about Bettis since he’s a fellow Notre Damer and also because I'm a Steelers fan when they're not playing the Bears. I even had the pleasure of meeting him once at an NFL promotional event. Nice guy.
Other top flight athletes who wear or have worn the 36 are Cliff Lee before he came to the Phillies; Dave Bolland of the Blackhawks; and Brian Westbrook, who wore number 36 over several NFC Championship seasons, a Super Bowl and two Pro Bowls with the Philadelphia Eagles. There’s also Jered Weaver, the All-Star pitcher for the Angels; as well as Shaquille O’Neal, who wears 36 now for the Celtics. Shaq originally wore his favored 32 for the Orlando Magic, and then number 34 for the Lakers, only because they had retired number 32 for Magic Johnson.
There’s also Rasheed Wallace, the wily on-court wildman who wore 36 for the Detroit Pistons after wearing number 30, only to change it back again to number 30 from 36. Wallace even broke 36 technical fouls in a season a couple of times, setting his high in 1999 at 40.
More gentlemanly 36s are pitcher Gaylord Perry, the San Francisco Giants legend, along with Robin Roberts of the Phillies, both of whom had their 36 shirts retired long ago. More obscure, there’s Ohio State’s Chris Spielman, who played for the Lions and now commentates for ESPN. Spielman is also one of football’s great humanitarians. He’s is a consummate class act, a better 36 than Wallace for sure.
On the subject of my hometown Chicago Bears, I was pretty dismayed to find in some internet research that there’s no distinguished Bear who wore 36, not in ’85 during the Super Bowl year, not ever. But an interesting thing happened. What I stumbled upon while trying to find a noteworthy 36 was the score of Super Bowl XX which I kinda sorta had in my head within a couple of points or so. I remember watching as a kid, but forgot the scoreline, just remembering that the Bears won handily. I was reminded, in fact that the Bears beat the Patriots 46 to 10, winning by the Super Bowl by 36.
There are other things that some wouldn’t care about regarding 36 and my 36-year-old’s fascination with #36. Such as the fact that Dennis Rodman was 36 when he won his last NBA title with the Bulls. Or that likewise coach Mike Tomlin won his first Super Bowl for the Steelers at age 36, making him the youngest NFL coach ever win the big one. Or that Wilt Chamberlain’s 36 field goals in a game stands, even today, as a long time NBA record.
Numbers may just be incidental to sport. I think what it is, is that some of us sports enthusiasts have an autistic quality of being able to collect the little pieces of what interests us; it’s an autistic quality that we’re proud of, and one that helps us figure out the patterns of life.
Always terrible with numbers, I am one who is able to remember a player’s shirt number like his face or his stats in a way that suggests that I should have been good at mathematics. For example, if I was given an address to a cookout somewhere, at, say 3144 High Street, I would –knowing that I can’t juggle numbers on their own—translate this address to shirt numbers of notable players, while most normal people would write it down. But me, I‘d pack it away as something like Reggie Miller / John Riggins. That’s #31 for Reggie Miller, a perennial All-Star who played with the Indiana Pacers; and #44 for John Riggins, a Super Bowl champ runningback with the Washington Redskins. Sometimes, this practice pains me, because, dammit, I hate the Redskins.
But maybe it’s not just us fans that catch on to such useful devices. A big deal is made about numbers by the players and clubs too, and even media when they're paying attention.
I remember back in 1995 when Michael Jordan came out of retirement the first time. Since his jersey bearing #23 had been retired by the Bulls, his new number upon his return to the Bulls roster was #45. Number 45 had been his older brother’s high school basketball shirt number, and as the legend goes, the whole reason Jordan took 23 was because he wanted to be “half as good” as his brother was. Certainly, as we saw, #45 wasn’t simply just half as good as #23 was a few years earlier. In fact it seemed like, within a game or two that old #23 was back. In March of ’95 Jordan scored 55 against the Knicks in New York. And later in the fall, a few games into the ’95-’96 season Michael took back shirt #23, and picked up his old, blistering pace.
I could go on for hours Jordan, his stats, and other notable NBA shirt numbers. Eventually though, the irrational sports lover reluctantly comes to terms with the fact –at some point-- that, to the rest of the world, there are more important things than Saturday night’s game.
While some say sports obsession itself is a gender-linked, hard wired obsession, most say age is just a number. Which is true. Age is a number, and a state of mind. So, at age 36 my state of mind must be that you start noticing cool things about the number 36, and little else.
But sports obsessed men are not the only ones who put stock in numbers, using them to their liking.
There’s a theory I’ve recently discovered that seems to be universal in the minds of women, or at least the women that I talk to, and my discovery of it could have something to do with the fact that I'm now just north of age 36, as are many of my own social contacts. Most of my women friends, plenty of whom are single too, have this dangling obsession, like my sports jersey obsession, just the same about a man’s age. Particularly a single man’s age, if “still single”, plays a part in whether he is marketable in the world of eligible females. The difference in this case is that women descend heavily on one particular number, the number 40.
I'm not making this up. I’ve heard plenty of women talk about expiration at 40, and once I first heard about it, I started asking questions.
“What do you think of men who are 40 and never-married?”
And I got feedback. Plenty of it. From the ones that I've polled, the thought is that men over 40 are expired produce. I might even call this whole idea the “40 Year Old Single Rule”, which according to women applies only to men, but not to women. Specifically, the theory goes that all 40-plus still-single men are like bruised fruit at the market, spoiled milk, or skunked red wine. Damaged goods.
But loopholes, albeit small ones, exist. Sure, you might date a single guy at 40 if it was just for fun, for regular easy-access sex. Or maybe you're in Punta Cana with your girlfriends and you meet some nice lad at the tiki bar, who’s nice to look at, has a good personality. Besides, you're only here for another couple days, so who cares. Otherwise, back at home, maybe if you need a date for a double date with a girlfriend, or a stag for a holiday party --especially the dressy kinds where it’s best not to go alone— then, yes, maybe a single 40 guy could have some use. Supposedly a divorced man is a better catch though, as is one who can at least claim a broken off engagement, since each imply at least a semblance of competence and a track record of moving in the right direction.
But according to Cat, Tess, and some of the other female brains I trust, 40/Still-Single men are not the kind of man you set up with your friends or seriously consider yourself.
Sure, the theory hasn’t been officially tested in a controlled environment, or quantified by scientists or gerontologists that I know of. But along with things like the Kennedy Assassination and The Bermuda Triangle, the idea of expiration at 40 is a generally accepted rule. Moreover, The 40 Year Old Single Rule is accepted practice, just like tax accountants use GAAP.
Based on what I have heard, women’s main rationale has mostly to do with one of two things. Specifically, 40 or being almost 40 and always single warns of a couple key things that women consider a major problem:
1)Commitment-phobia. The age-old thought that a man does not want to ever be married or “tied down”. And it is assumed that this specimen, Male #1 let’s call him, is still single because he would rather be a player than a serious mate, or would continue to be a player even if he were to accept the role, officially speaking, as your serious mate.
Paradoxically though, despite the caution advised, one friend suggested her vantage point that flings are OK, since, she says Male #1, is probably good in bed.
2)The second kind, which we’ll call Male #2 is one that is totally, irreparably socially inept.
Male #2 is never-married at 40 because he’s too attached to his mother, has childish hobbies, or focuses on trivial things that demand full saturation of his mind and all of his limited emotions. Hopefully he’s moved out of mom’s house physically, but if so, it doesn’t make much difference. Or maybe he’s just a tad geeky, Quasi Modo-like. Sure, you don’t want to be mean by judging him, but you definitely don’t need to date him, and nor do your friends, even the most hapless and hopelessly single of them.
Then again, at best, he’s married to his job, one to which any woman will always play second fiddle.
He can't hold a conversation and risks boring, nervous, tedious company. He could be prone to temper tantrums or have major unpacked maturity snags that you just don't have the time or energy to deal with. And, I'm guessing, as other women would note, that this one’s probably terrible in bed. Like you even needed a deal breaker.
Beyond those descriptions there are possibly a few legitimate reasons why a man might be 40 and still single. Maybe he’s a poor, lost poet finding himself. Maybe he’s busy taking care of his elderly mother and has a heart of gold. Or maybe because he’s legally a bound slave or serf, beholden to the beck and call of some Roman-style emperor-dictator, witch doctor, or female monarch in a distant, off-the-beaten-path country. Any of which makes him no more attractive to a single girl than either Male #1 or Male #2.
Sounds like a tough rap, being 40ish and single. If you're a man and you have put yourself in this position, you'd better damn well enjoy it or at least not be bothered by the stereotypes about you, right or wrong. Because according to everyone else, unmarried women mainly, it’s like you’ve dropped out of high school and since then have barely held down a pizza delivery job. Or like you’ve done time. Or both.
But that's all according to the prevailing logic. Anyhow, don't ask me, I'm only 36. I've got a few years until they start looking at me with suspicion.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. All the thoughts and opinions expressed are that of the character, not necessarily the creator. And this is all you’re getting about the book for a while.
Written words © 2011 Pics courtesy of the NBA.com store "customize your jersey" tool.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Book Excerpt: "Comic Moments Following Me"
Below is an excerpt, and one of the shorter chapters of my upcoming book. The working title, “my sports complex” is a fiction piece about a preoccupied sports writer.
“Gay Gadgets for Guys is now following you on Twitter!”
That was the first email I got when I woke up this morning. I don’t usually get accosted by such things before 8am.
I’ve got this Twitter account as an extension of my life as a professional sports writer and as an unofficial extension of my newspaper column. Just about every journalist has one except perhaps for that quintessential complainer Andy Rooney. And I'm glad Andy Rooney doesn’t have a Twitter account, because he’d only go onto to 60 Minutes and say “Ya know, maybe it’s just me…” and then bitch and moan about his Twitter fix.
Technically speaking, the account by which I am known as @TuggTweets is mine and only mine. But even though it is not affiliated with the Philadelphia Globe, I do have to watch what I say, not only keeping it clean (for the most part) but also keeping what I put out there strictly about today’s game or tomorrow’s sports world, in line with what’s happening in sports. Not my haughty opinions or flippant hourly obsessions.
Sure, social media had changed the way we interact with each other, and it has probably even pushed the boundaries of what we’re comfortable saying. Much of the feedback or “tweets” as they call them come in the form of fan responses; some who agree, some who think my daily diatribes are full of it, and some who just want to shout out as loud as they can digitally about the Phils, Giants, Cliff Lee, LeBron, Tiger Woods or whatever else. Likewise, every time a new user or fan decides to follow me I get an email informing me of it.
This morning’s blurb on my BlackBerry was a special one though, because it’s not every day that I get notification that gay men with toys are “following” me, albeit following me on Twitter, not literally following me, but virtually following me. Hey, I’m all for gay rights and for the community, so that’s no issue. I just think that there’s a chock full of comic value laden in almost every little thing that comes your way. Later, when I took the time to read the email, I found the email’s corporate disclaimer about my right to report Gay Gadgets for "abusive behavior" or “spam” a bit hilarious too. I guess if I am afraid that Gay Gadgets is spamming my account then I can just go ahead and block them. I suspect though that in some quarters that could be considered digital cock blocking.
But it made a little more sense when I read the info within, which took a second to tell me where this came from.
“@GayGadgetsXO follows a user who follows you:
* Tess Morgenstern - http://twitter.com/TessSaysF_Alot”
It makes a lot of sense that this early morning charm came directly by way of my stand up comic friend, the potty-mouthed Tess, as her online moniker, @TessSaysF_Alot, aptly describes her humor and the potency that goes with it. The link to, or the “follow” by the gadgets guys probably isn’t an intentional joke, nor do I think she put them up to it. But it just demonstrates the odd way by which we all cross-pollinate in the digital age. I tweet the same way I write, about the same old things. About sports, day in and day out. Every once in a while like today, the boomerang comes back to me with a big dildo attached to it. Such is the life of a full time writer and semi-professional smart ass.
But the mention of Tess, serendipitously name-dropped by my new friends in the gadget business, brought to mind a funny episode that happened the same day I saw her last, a week ago. My cell went off and I heard what sounded very clearly like a kid’s voice, and then it went like this…
“Hello, this is Tugg.”
“Hello,” says the little voice.
“Yeah?”
“Who’s this?”
“Tugg.”
“Doug? Who…Who’s this?”
“No. It’s Tugg.”
“Who’s Doug?”
“I think you got the wrong number, kid.”
“What?”
“Who are you trying to call?”
< Click. >
Then a minute later the phone rang again. I ignored it and then it rang another time, and I ignored that too. Because I was eating lunch and reading up on what the sports page over at the Inquirer had to say today, I had my attentions occupied. I didn’t feel like answering and I wouldn’t have answered again no matter what, not right now, even if it was my editor, a friend or god forbid, my mother. Later, after finishing my Thai, I checked my voice mail to find the sounds of the same anonymous kid.
“Hey you! I’m gonna kick your butt!” < Click. >
For a minute I felt my wise guy inside jump up, ready to spew a comeback comment. Either that or it was just the 14 year old I used to be, who occasionally rears his ugly, petulant head that awoke me from my grown-up workday grumble. I wanted to say “bring it on” to this kid since, you know, I could totally take him and probably kick his dad’s ass too.
It is the little comic moments like these that, at least in my days, make the stale air fresh again, and this was one of those privately side-splitting things that you want to tell somebody about back at work, like, “Guess what… I just got threatened by an 8 year old.” This little kid who should have been at school or daycamp just called to tell me, some stranger, that he was gonna kick my ass. And in a way he did kick my ass or at least knock me off my serious grown-up perch. Oh, if I only coulda thanked him.
But I was in for more as the day moved along. Tess and I have this ritual about once every other month, and once a month in the summertime, of blowing off our respective work to cut out early and grab some margaritas at, say 2 or 3pm in the afternoon. Much of her gig, besides the drama teaching, is at night and mine is whenever, so mid day on a Tuesday or Wednesday just makes sense for alcohol as long as there’s nothing pressing to do. And when you get to make your own schedule, as I do and she does, then you take it as one of the best perks of the job and use it wisely. I figured it was time for us to catch up; me on her latest life antics, and her getting into my business and the details she loved about the women I'm chasing.
But better yet, this day I got to drop in early on her, to check out her improvisational comedy classes at the mini mecca of comedy on the East Coast known as The Tableau Theatre. Tableau is housed in a majestic old bank building, one of the kinds you often see in Philly that I love, bearing the name of an old and now defunct financial institution up on the frieze above the doorways. I think Tess teaches the class because she loves it and it is some nice extra pay. It probably keeps her fresh in between the local shows she does and her cross-country stints that happen twice a year, when she hits the big clubs like Zanies in Chicago and Mitzy’s in LA. But behind the stoic marble doorways was a boiling comic cauldron, one that looked as though it was a nutty gameshow shot out of the bowels of hell onto a stage. As a spectator I’d get a closer glimpse of what makes a comic mind work, and maybe what Dante was onto.
“Okay. Sandy. Mitch. Mike. You're up. And…and you're at work along the shore on the dock, bitches. Go”.
That’s what I hear as I peer in and plop down in a seat in the back row, as I let myself in, acknowledged by a winky smile and a Marine Corps salute from Tess. But before letting the three players get on with it, Tess interrupts the moment with some coaching about commitment, going into the scene.
“Remember guys: whatever is happening, commit to your character, the character you're choosing. And remember, it only sucks if you don’t commit and decide it sucks.” They nod. “So don’t let it suck. Have fun with it.”
Tess doesn’t really know anything about sports, and she’d tell you herself that she doesn’t care about sports. Or as she put it to me once, “I don’t give a camel’s cock about sports, my friend”. I don’t know what makes her comic mouth so rough, or rough to some people that is, yet I'm just as humored by every word that comes out of her mouth as I think she is. In truth, she’s really a nice person and someone who can disarm you. But she likes to put you on the spot –you, me and everybody—and that’s part of the fun of it. But like the most committed and intense athletes I’ve known --both pro and everyday amateur-- she’s got a thing, a hang-up maybe, that demands performance. And she’s got an energy that brings it out of you. It makes me think Tess instructs these up-and-coming actors because it gives her a chance, just a little bit once in a while, to mess with people but make them witness, maybe force-feed themselves the comedy in life in the same way that little kid made me feel it on the phone that day. What Tess was instructing was something pretty simple. That is, when you get an idea to stick with it, push it and make it work. If you're on stage and your character is sweeping then floor then sweep with enthusiasm. In improv, it turns out, if you stick to what you’re doing you’ll find the scene and so will the others in the scene with you. Otherwise, if you drop your initiation in lieu of something else, then you're confused and confusing the audience, looking like an asshole.
The scene, as it turned out, was pretty entertaining. Somehow, from that simple instruction that “you're at work at a dock”, the mini-show that morphed out of it was a silent one in which one longshoreman yanked a rope and the other two bounced, back and forth, totally silent. And for about four minutes I was entertained by a silent tug-of-war that could have been crafted by classic Buster Keaton or the Keystone Cops, but with a script. After the skit, a few more words about commitment came out.
“If you don’t like something at first, what you discover in the scene, then take your face and rub it into that bitch, until you love that shit. Whatever happened up there you guys found what was going on and worked with it. Nice one.”
And I agreed to, nice job. But that was honestly the first time I had ever heard the topic of commitment described that way: as something you'd enjoy if only you’d rub your face in it more.
For a moment it sounded like words an angry Vince Lombardi would have rambled to his Packers on a lazy day of bad practice. Or something that your wrestling coach says when you're puking after the day’s block of sprinting, conditioning, jumping rope, and rolling around on a mat with other sweaty wrestlers, only to be told you need to step it up. Then again, this sentiment --if you don’t like something in life, rub your face in that shit-- is kind of a statement you’d find in a manic, over-caffeinated version of a Deepak Chopra day calendar. Still it makes sense.
The best stand up greats like Tess, and others like Eddy Izzard, Patton Oswalt, Bruce, Belzer, and Wright, and even less blue-humored types like Bill Cosby and the great Robert Klein can pull off a great comic masterpiece on their own, on stage for a good hour or so, creating their own space and filling it solely from their own mania and the creativity inside that drives them. But the comedy, the best comedy I think comes out of great group sketches I’ve seen --and that we’ve all seen-- in movies, Saturday Night Live, etc. Maybe that’s why I came today. Nothing against solo stand-up, but I think sketch comedy is such a feast, and when it really works that’s when it resembles a family style meal. It’s like everyone takes a slice of this, a scoop of that and everyone passes it around until we’re all served, making a mess together. Meanwhile, someone else breaks bread while someone else pours wine, another spills the wine, heightening the experience. The kids jump out of their chairs, peas hit the floor, and grandpa’s dentures slip out and get stuck in a corn cob. All of this makes it an enjoyable and laughable meal together. And comedy, like eating together, is real life.
In another sketch scene, four of them went up on stage standing tall, arms out, acting like trees. The fifth player, catching onto this scenery, picked apples one tree at a time, breaking into monologue, talking about his trees, naming them one by one. The first tree he called a “Japanese Maple” keeled over and committed a hari kari ritual suicide, and then when he plucked the fruit from a “Palestinian Delicious” as he called it, the tree, in politically incorrect fashion just blew up.
Suddenly we had a scene about trees killing themselves. Could have been just in my mind, but it dawned on me that same week the news reported the poisoned oak trees at Auburn, and someone blamed Alabama football fans. So it looked like I just got an unscripted version of the day’s news and social commentary, just for stopping in. Rather, these open eared, witty comics just switched their brains on the high notch and took each others subtle cues, rolling with it, producing something impromptu that at least I thought was funny.
There was no script, and with improv there never is a script, yet it all worked, just like much of what happens in the moment of the day, day in, day out. I get that improvisational comedy is about taking an idea, agreeing to it, heightening it, and even making a repetitive game out of it. The question that always comes up is about what creates comedy. What makes funny funny?
There isn’t an easy answer, or at least not an answer that is easily articulated. I know when something is obviously funny, we all do. Maybe some people have it and others just don’t, which would suggest that funny is a personality trait, but I don’t think that it is. But I’d just observe.
In another scene, a lanky, perky redhead was on stage with a grey and tubby, unshaven middle aged buy bearing his ubiquitous smartass smirk. I forget what the Tess’s suggestion was, but suddenly we were at a singles bar. I was not surprised that the talk converted its idle chatter into a commentary about sexuality.
“We have a lot in common you and me,” the guy said, like he was hitting on the girl at a snazzy nightclub. He goes on to stammer on about how much he loves Italian girls, and that his mother is a lesbian. The quippy redhead responded, “As an ethnic half-Italian I find it so sexy that you're ethnically half lesbian.”
I laughed as did the rest of the small crowd. Ethnically half lesbian? I don’t quite understand the mechanics of what made that comment funny. But it is funny, when you think about it, that someone, somewhere out there might actually describe himself as being ethnically half lesbian. Hell, I wish I was at least half lesbian
“Allright. Scene.” Tess called, ending it on a high note. “Nice work. See what happens when you let it flow and just enjoy the fucking ride?”
I think for one that Tess had a way of pumping us up with her off beat instructional style and her cussing encouragement. I had a gym teacher in high school who once told me to “get my shit together”, but had never had a professor to tell me to enjoy the ride or to “get off hard” in Journalism 101 the way Tess advocated her students to get off on stage. That freedom and encouragement to say “yes” to the idea that comes up first, is what I heard Tess call the “Yes And” concept. And it seems to be what makes it work every time. Whatever you’re given you say “yes” to, and then add something else. Yes and.
Though I’d never taken an acting class or a comedy workshop in my life, and I probably wouldn’t make time to, I thought for a minute that maybe “Yes And” was something I needed a little bit more of in my life, here in the grind.
Comic class cleared out, and Tess gave me the usual hug hello and a kiss on the cheek, stating “See, people who get high can get things accomplished.” I never doubted her will to get things accomplished. And high or not I wouldn’t think her weed is what makes Tess and everything around her funny.
Like the end note at the end of that email said, “You do not follow Gay Products Gadgets. What's Next?” I wasn’t sure what was next to follow, but I’d be ready.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex, trying to keep up with Andy Rooney.
Written words © 2010 Pics courtesy of Kaleidoscope Isle of Wight.
“Gay Gadgets for Guys is now following you on Twitter!”
That was the first email I got when I woke up this morning. I don’t usually get accosted by such things before 8am.
I’ve got this Twitter account as an extension of my life as a professional sports writer and as an unofficial extension of my newspaper column. Just about every journalist has one except perhaps for that quintessential complainer Andy Rooney. And I'm glad Andy Rooney doesn’t have a Twitter account, because he’d only go onto to 60 Minutes and say “Ya know, maybe it’s just me…” and then bitch and moan about his Twitter fix.
Technically speaking, the account by which I am known as @TuggTweets is mine and only mine. But even though it is not affiliated with the Philadelphia Globe, I do have to watch what I say, not only keeping it clean (for the most part) but also keeping what I put out there strictly about today’s game or tomorrow’s sports world, in line with what’s happening in sports. Not my haughty opinions or flippant hourly obsessions.
Sure, social media had changed the way we interact with each other, and it has probably even pushed the boundaries of what we’re comfortable saying. Much of the feedback or “tweets” as they call them come in the form of fan responses; some who agree, some who think my daily diatribes are full of it, and some who just want to shout out as loud as they can digitally about the Phils, Giants, Cliff Lee, LeBron, Tiger Woods or whatever else. Likewise, every time a new user or fan decides to follow me I get an email informing me of it.
This morning’s blurb on my BlackBerry was a special one though, because it’s not every day that I get notification that gay men with toys are “following” me, albeit following me on Twitter, not literally following me, but virtually following me. Hey, I’m all for gay rights and for the community, so that’s no issue. I just think that there’s a chock full of comic value laden in almost every little thing that comes your way. Later, when I took the time to read the email, I found the email’s corporate disclaimer about my right to report Gay Gadgets for "abusive behavior" or “spam” a bit hilarious too. I guess if I am afraid that Gay Gadgets is spamming my account then I can just go ahead and block them. I suspect though that in some quarters that could be considered digital cock blocking.
But it made a little more sense when I read the info within, which took a second to tell me where this came from.
“@GayGadgetsXO follows a user who follows you:
* Tess Morgenstern - http://twitter.com/TessSaysF_Alot”
It makes a lot of sense that this early morning charm came directly by way of my stand up comic friend, the potty-mouthed Tess, as her online moniker, @TessSaysF_Alot, aptly describes her humor and the potency that goes with it. The link to, or the “follow” by the gadgets guys probably isn’t an intentional joke, nor do I think she put them up to it. But it just demonstrates the odd way by which we all cross-pollinate in the digital age. I tweet the same way I write, about the same old things. About sports, day in and day out. Every once in a while like today, the boomerang comes back to me with a big dildo attached to it. Such is the life of a full time writer and semi-professional smart ass.
But the mention of Tess, serendipitously name-dropped by my new friends in the gadget business, brought to mind a funny episode that happened the same day I saw her last, a week ago. My cell went off and I heard what sounded very clearly like a kid’s voice, and then it went like this…
“Hello, this is Tugg.”
“Hello,” says the little voice.
“Yeah?”
“Who’s this?”
“Tugg.”
“Doug? Who…Who’s this?”
“No. It’s Tugg.”
“Who’s Doug?”
“I think you got the wrong number, kid.”
“What?”
“Who are you trying to call?”
< Click. >
Then a minute later the phone rang again. I ignored it and then it rang another time, and I ignored that too. Because I was eating lunch and reading up on what the sports page over at the Inquirer had to say today, I had my attentions occupied. I didn’t feel like answering and I wouldn’t have answered again no matter what, not right now, even if it was my editor, a friend or god forbid, my mother. Later, after finishing my Thai, I checked my voice mail to find the sounds of the same anonymous kid.
“Hey you! I’m gonna kick your butt!” < Click. >
For a minute I felt my wise guy inside jump up, ready to spew a comeback comment. Either that or it was just the 14 year old I used to be, who occasionally rears his ugly, petulant head that awoke me from my grown-up workday grumble. I wanted to say “bring it on” to this kid since, you know, I could totally take him and probably kick his dad’s ass too.
It is the little comic moments like these that, at least in my days, make the stale air fresh again, and this was one of those privately side-splitting things that you want to tell somebody about back at work, like, “Guess what… I just got threatened by an 8 year old.” This little kid who should have been at school or daycamp just called to tell me, some stranger, that he was gonna kick my ass. And in a way he did kick my ass or at least knock me off my serious grown-up perch. Oh, if I only coulda thanked him.
But I was in for more as the day moved along. Tess and I have this ritual about once every other month, and once a month in the summertime, of blowing off our respective work to cut out early and grab some margaritas at, say 2 or 3pm in the afternoon. Much of her gig, besides the drama teaching, is at night and mine is whenever, so mid day on a Tuesday or Wednesday just makes sense for alcohol as long as there’s nothing pressing to do. And when you get to make your own schedule, as I do and she does, then you take it as one of the best perks of the job and use it wisely. I figured it was time for us to catch up; me on her latest life antics, and her getting into my business and the details she loved about the women I'm chasing.
But better yet, this day I got to drop in early on her, to check out her improvisational comedy classes at the mini mecca of comedy on the East Coast known as The Tableau Theatre. Tableau is housed in a majestic old bank building, one of the kinds you often see in Philly that I love, bearing the name of an old and now defunct financial institution up on the frieze above the doorways. I think Tess teaches the class because she loves it and it is some nice extra pay. It probably keeps her fresh in between the local shows she does and her cross-country stints that happen twice a year, when she hits the big clubs like Zanies in Chicago and Mitzy’s in LA. But behind the stoic marble doorways was a boiling comic cauldron, one that looked as though it was a nutty gameshow shot out of the bowels of hell onto a stage. As a spectator I’d get a closer glimpse of what makes a comic mind work, and maybe what Dante was onto.
“Okay. Sandy. Mitch. Mike. You're up. And…and you're at work along the shore on the dock, bitches. Go”.
That’s what I hear as I peer in and plop down in a seat in the back row, as I let myself in, acknowledged by a winky smile and a Marine Corps salute from Tess. But before letting the three players get on with it, Tess interrupts the moment with some coaching about commitment, going into the scene.
“Remember guys: whatever is happening, commit to your character, the character you're choosing. And remember, it only sucks if you don’t commit and decide it sucks.” They nod. “So don’t let it suck. Have fun with it.”
Tess doesn’t really know anything about sports, and she’d tell you herself that she doesn’t care about sports. Or as she put it to me once, “I don’t give a camel’s cock about sports, my friend”. I don’t know what makes her comic mouth so rough, or rough to some people that is, yet I'm just as humored by every word that comes out of her mouth as I think she is. In truth, she’s really a nice person and someone who can disarm you. But she likes to put you on the spot –you, me and everybody—and that’s part of the fun of it. But like the most committed and intense athletes I’ve known --both pro and everyday amateur-- she’s got a thing, a hang-up maybe, that demands performance. And she’s got an energy that brings it out of you. It makes me think Tess instructs these up-and-coming actors because it gives her a chance, just a little bit once in a while, to mess with people but make them witness, maybe force-feed themselves the comedy in life in the same way that little kid made me feel it on the phone that day. What Tess was instructing was something pretty simple. That is, when you get an idea to stick with it, push it and make it work. If you're on stage and your character is sweeping then floor then sweep with enthusiasm. In improv, it turns out, if you stick to what you’re doing you’ll find the scene and so will the others in the scene with you. Otherwise, if you drop your initiation in lieu of something else, then you're confused and confusing the audience, looking like an asshole.
The scene, as it turned out, was pretty entertaining. Somehow, from that simple instruction that “you're at work at a dock”, the mini-show that morphed out of it was a silent one in which one longshoreman yanked a rope and the other two bounced, back and forth, totally silent. And for about four minutes I was entertained by a silent tug-of-war that could have been crafted by classic Buster Keaton or the Keystone Cops, but with a script. After the skit, a few more words about commitment came out.
“If you don’t like something at first, what you discover in the scene, then take your face and rub it into that bitch, until you love that shit. Whatever happened up there you guys found what was going on and worked with it. Nice one.”
And I agreed to, nice job. But that was honestly the first time I had ever heard the topic of commitment described that way: as something you'd enjoy if only you’d rub your face in it more.
For a moment it sounded like words an angry Vince Lombardi would have rambled to his Packers on a lazy day of bad practice. Or something that your wrestling coach says when you're puking after the day’s block of sprinting, conditioning, jumping rope, and rolling around on a mat with other sweaty wrestlers, only to be told you need to step it up. Then again, this sentiment --if you don’t like something in life, rub your face in that shit-- is kind of a statement you’d find in a manic, over-caffeinated version of a Deepak Chopra day calendar. Still it makes sense.
The best stand up greats like Tess, and others like Eddy Izzard, Patton Oswalt, Bruce, Belzer, and Wright, and even less blue-humored types like Bill Cosby and the great Robert Klein can pull off a great comic masterpiece on their own, on stage for a good hour or so, creating their own space and filling it solely from their own mania and the creativity inside that drives them. But the comedy, the best comedy I think comes out of great group sketches I’ve seen --and that we’ve all seen-- in movies, Saturday Night Live, etc. Maybe that’s why I came today. Nothing against solo stand-up, but I think sketch comedy is such a feast, and when it really works that’s when it resembles a family style meal. It’s like everyone takes a slice of this, a scoop of that and everyone passes it around until we’re all served, making a mess together. Meanwhile, someone else breaks bread while someone else pours wine, another spills the wine, heightening the experience. The kids jump out of their chairs, peas hit the floor, and grandpa’s dentures slip out and get stuck in a corn cob. All of this makes it an enjoyable and laughable meal together. And comedy, like eating together, is real life.
In another sketch scene, four of them went up on stage standing tall, arms out, acting like trees. The fifth player, catching onto this scenery, picked apples one tree at a time, breaking into monologue, talking about his trees, naming them one by one. The first tree he called a “Japanese Maple” keeled over and committed a hari kari ritual suicide, and then when he plucked the fruit from a “Palestinian Delicious” as he called it, the tree, in politically incorrect fashion just blew up.
Suddenly we had a scene about trees killing themselves. Could have been just in my mind, but it dawned on me that same week the news reported the poisoned oak trees at Auburn, and someone blamed Alabama football fans. So it looked like I just got an unscripted version of the day’s news and social commentary, just for stopping in. Rather, these open eared, witty comics just switched their brains on the high notch and took each others subtle cues, rolling with it, producing something impromptu that at least I thought was funny.
There was no script, and with improv there never is a script, yet it all worked, just like much of what happens in the moment of the day, day in, day out. I get that improvisational comedy is about taking an idea, agreeing to it, heightening it, and even making a repetitive game out of it. The question that always comes up is about what creates comedy. What makes funny funny?
There isn’t an easy answer, or at least not an answer that is easily articulated. I know when something is obviously funny, we all do. Maybe some people have it and others just don’t, which would suggest that funny is a personality trait, but I don’t think that it is. But I’d just observe.
In another scene, a lanky, perky redhead was on stage with a grey and tubby, unshaven middle aged buy bearing his ubiquitous smartass smirk. I forget what the Tess’s suggestion was, but suddenly we were at a singles bar. I was not surprised that the talk converted its idle chatter into a commentary about sexuality.
“We have a lot in common you and me,” the guy said, like he was hitting on the girl at a snazzy nightclub. He goes on to stammer on about how much he loves Italian girls, and that his mother is a lesbian. The quippy redhead responded, “As an ethnic half-Italian I find it so sexy that you're ethnically half lesbian.”
I laughed as did the rest of the small crowd. Ethnically half lesbian? I don’t quite understand the mechanics of what made that comment funny. But it is funny, when you think about it, that someone, somewhere out there might actually describe himself as being ethnically half lesbian. Hell, I wish I was at least half lesbian
“Allright. Scene.” Tess called, ending it on a high note. “Nice work. See what happens when you let it flow and just enjoy the fucking ride?”
I think for one that Tess had a way of pumping us up with her off beat instructional style and her cussing encouragement. I had a gym teacher in high school who once told me to “get my shit together”, but had never had a professor to tell me to enjoy the ride or to “get off hard” in Journalism 101 the way Tess advocated her students to get off on stage. That freedom and encouragement to say “yes” to the idea that comes up first, is what I heard Tess call the “Yes And” concept. And it seems to be what makes it work every time. Whatever you’re given you say “yes” to, and then add something else. Yes and.
Though I’d never taken an acting class or a comedy workshop in my life, and I probably wouldn’t make time to, I thought for a minute that maybe “Yes And” was something I needed a little bit more of in my life, here in the grind.
Comic class cleared out, and Tess gave me the usual hug hello and a kiss on the cheek, stating “See, people who get high can get things accomplished.” I never doubted her will to get things accomplished. And high or not I wouldn’t think her weed is what makes Tess and everything around her funny.
Like the end note at the end of that email said, “You do not follow Gay Products Gadgets. What's Next?” I wasn’t sure what was next to follow, but I’d be ready.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex, trying to keep up with Andy Rooney.
Written words © 2010 Pics courtesy of Kaleidoscope Isle of Wight.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Who will replace Fergie?
For those of you who were hoping I had something to say about the Super Bowl Halftime Show, I’m sorry. Or, if you were hoping to find pics of the gyrating curves of Stacy Ann Ferguson, aka “Fergie” of the Black Eyed Peas, again my apologies, but you’ve got the wrong Fergie.
You may know very little about soccer abroad, or at home. It may even bother you that most of the world calls soccer “football”, not to be confused with the kind that just engulfed our entire Sunday. But chances are that if you know anything about sports, you know that Manchester United is arguably the biggest sports club on the planet.
Bigger than the Dallas Cowboys, bigger than the Green Bay Packers. Bigger than the LA Lakers, bigger than the Chicago Bulls in Michael Jordan’s heyday and bigger than any hockey team, even with Wayne Gretzky. Their supporters are everywhere across the world, their reach stretching farther than Steelers fans, Ohio State Football crazies, and probably Catholic missionaries too. Only the New York Yankees or perhaps their Spanish soccer rival Real Madrid, primarily in the Spanish-speaking world, venture to come even close.
You may hate Manchester United or soccer as a whole, and may have stopped reading by now. But if not, it’s important to notice that besides the millions of fans, fame, money, 11 championships in two decades, and world titles, there is one solid factor that has remained a constant in the 25 years of success for Man United. That is their coach and manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, who has been at the helm for 25 years.
A coach with a 25 year stint at any organization is a rarity in big money sports. Within English Football, Newcastle United, a cross-country rival has had 13 managers since the arrival of Ferguson at Man United.
In college basketball, Jim Boheim has stayed at the controls at Syracuse almost as long since the late 1980s, along with Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski and Maryland’s Gary Williams. But in pro sports Phil Jackson’s six championships and total dominance of the NBA in eight years bought him nothing more than a open door leading outward from the Chicago Bulls. Even Billy Martin’s spotty decade with the Yankees didn’t occur without Martin getting fired several times.
United has hosted some of the world’s biggest footballers, both acquired and home grown, often watching them excel to greater heights. Legends like Paul Ince, Eric Cantona, Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham have all come and gone, while others like Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney have stayed. Like it or not though, perhaps no player, no matter how famous, no matter how excellent, is bigger than the club and its manager.
Nonetheless, United’s training academy appears to continue morphing crafty 13 year olds toward becoming world class players; and the coffers are rife with money to acquire new talent from other clubs bent on cashing in on United’s check writing skills.
While the on-field talent has remained constant, many of United’s past legends such as Mark Hughes and Steve Bruce have had marginal success in managing clubs. Meanwhile, other legends like Roy Keane and Bryan Robson have had, at best, short and rocky careers running clubs into the ground.
My joke about this is that while sharing a history at Man United, former United stars share one common coaching skill: the ability to drive a busload of footballers downhill, fast.
Some predict that Ferguson, age 69, will step down fairly soon. His eventual retirement, whether voluntary or forced by Father Time, may possibly signal and end to Manchester United’s unfettered dominance. United haters, of course, hope it will herald the eventual demise of the club.
But with its reputation, past success, and large sums of money, it would be hard to think that Manchester United would make a careless choice in putting in place the next manager of the world’s biggest club. And if their first choice, whoever that may be, among managers is not available at the time of the next position opening, it’s likely that at least Steve McClaren, who got fired again this weekend, will be available.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Written words © 2011. Pictures courtesy of The Daily Telegraph, UK
Sir Alex Ferguson has lots of bling for an avowed socialist.
You may know very little about soccer abroad, or at home. It may even bother you that most of the world calls soccer “football”, not to be confused with the kind that just engulfed our entire Sunday. But chances are that if you know anything about sports, you know that Manchester United is arguably the biggest sports club on the planet.
Bigger than the Dallas Cowboys, bigger than the Green Bay Packers. Bigger than the LA Lakers, bigger than the Chicago Bulls in Michael Jordan’s heyday and bigger than any hockey team, even with Wayne Gretzky. Their supporters are everywhere across the world, their reach stretching farther than Steelers fans, Ohio State Football crazies, and probably Catholic missionaries too. Only the New York Yankees or perhaps their Spanish soccer rival Real Madrid, primarily in the Spanish-speaking world, venture to come even close.
You may hate Manchester United or soccer as a whole, and may have stopped reading by now. But if not, it’s important to notice that besides the millions of fans, fame, money, 11 championships in two decades, and world titles, there is one solid factor that has remained a constant in the 25 years of success for Man United. That is their coach and manager, Sir Alex Ferguson, who has been at the helm for 25 years.
José Mourinho (l) wants Fergie’s job, but his mouth gets him in trouble with media and club owners.
But Laurent Blanc aka “Larry White” (middle) seems to be a favored front runner, while Martin O’Neill (r) is a possibility.
A coach with a 25 year stint at any organization is a rarity in big money sports. Within English Football, Newcastle United, a cross-country rival has had 13 managers since the arrival of Ferguson at Man United.
In college basketball, Jim Boheim has stayed at the controls at Syracuse almost as long since the late 1980s, along with Duke’s Mike Krzyzewski and Maryland’s Gary Williams. But in pro sports Phil Jackson’s six championships and total dominance of the NBA in eight years bought him nothing more than a open door leading outward from the Chicago Bulls. Even Billy Martin’s spotty decade with the Yankees didn’t occur without Martin getting fired several times.
United has hosted some of the world’s biggest footballers, both acquired and home grown, often watching them excel to greater heights. Legends like Paul Ince, Eric Cantona, Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham have all come and gone, while others like Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney have stayed. Like it or not though, perhaps no player, no matter how famous, no matter how excellent, is bigger than the club and its manager.
Nonetheless, United’s training academy appears to continue morphing crafty 13 year olds toward becoming world class players; and the coffers are rife with money to acquire new talent from other clubs bent on cashing in on United’s check writing skills.
While the on-field talent has remained constant, many of United’s past legends such as Mark Hughes and Steve Bruce have had marginal success in managing clubs. Meanwhile, other legends like Roy Keane and Bryan Robson have had, at best, short and rocky careers running clubs into the ground.
'80s legend Robson, left, has been a managerial flop and Roy Keane, right, hasn’t fared much better.
Other legends who want the job and won’t get it: Paul Ince, Steve Bruce, Steve Coppell, Mark Hughes, and Eric Cantona.
My joke about this is that while sharing a history at Man United, former United stars share one common coaching skill: the ability to drive a busload of footballers downhill, fast.
Some predict that Ferguson, age 69, will step down fairly soon. His eventual retirement, whether voluntary or forced by Father Time, may possibly signal and end to Manchester United’s unfettered dominance. United haters, of course, hope it will herald the eventual demise of the club.
David Moyes, left, has done wonders at Everton with scant money and fair talent. Another possibility could be Gordon Strachan, right.
But with its reputation, past success, and large sums of money, it would be hard to think that Manchester United would make a careless choice in putting in place the next manager of the world’s biggest club. And if their first choice, whoever that may be, among managers is not available at the time of the next position opening, it’s likely that at least Steve McClaren, who got fired again this weekend, will be available.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Written words © 2011. Pictures courtesy of The Daily Telegraph, UK
Monday, January 17, 2011
"Karma Bus Rides Through Hell"
The following is part of a series called Short Short Sports Stories which are real life stories, funny stuff, quips and things that happened around 1000 words.
About three years ago I was on a city bus on the way to one of my adult intramural soccer games. Typically I try to avoid the bus when I can, but on this early evening in Chicago I didn’t have the car and the sports complex hosting my game was west of the el train, so the Chicago Transit bus it was.
Besides the usual crowd of people minding their own business on the way home from work, there was a man in a wheel chair who was restless, unruly and downright obnoxious. He was doing a UFC fighting style play-by-play of the entire bus ride, while sort of telling the driver what to do. Meanwhile he seemed to be warning every one of the perils of the road.
As the CTA bus sped up from 20 miles per hour to a blistering 30 the guy in the wheelchair pipes in and really hits his high notes.
“You almost hit that curb and if you did that guy woulda flown through that windshield and OH that woulda been MESSED UP! Sheeeeit…” Sure, the guy in the wheelchair was exaggerating big time. At 30 miles per hour nobody flies anywhere. But at least this “bus seat driver” was enjoying himself.
A few people got on and a few people got off, and this is typical of the CTA bus and city life. Often people in the big city coexist side by side without paying too much mind to the person next to them. They go about their business and don’t bother with much besides their business. And even though I’ve lived in the city for a decade and a half, maybe the fact that I grew up in the peaceful and (at times) boring suburbs makes me take notice of city’s odd performers. But this guy really wasn’t too hard to notice.
I was playing goal keeper that night for an indoor game, so I used this bus time to tape up my hands. This was something that usually drew a few strange glances since I don’t exactly look like a boxer. But today nobody paid much mind to me since the live entertainment was at the front of the bus.
“You almost hit that dude crossing the street and damn, he woulda went down on the ground and got CRUSHED! That woulda been MESSED UP! DAMN!” Still, nobody seemed to be amused or even fazed except for me. Maybe they were just avoiding eye contact.
This guy in the wheel chair didn’t seem to be certifiably crazy, but did, based on his scruffy appearance and dirty clothes, look to be chronically homeless or maybe just one of the city’s more eccentric outcasts. And he wasn’t really bothering anybody individually, just all of us mildly as a collective cast on a sitcom from Hell. But it wasn’t until kids got on the bus that his shtick heightened its colorful language.
The bus got rolling again at regular speed but eventually made an abrupt stop to comply with regular Chicago traffic. Some bike messenger zipped by us, as they’re known to do, cutting in front of the halted bus and then shot between the next lanes to the left.
“If that guy was there a second ago, he woulda got FUCKED UP! On his bike too! BAM!" he said.
“Shut up and watch your language!” the bus driver asserted, “Or get off the bus, OK?,” now getting fed up with the unnecessary antics from this one guy.
Subsequently, the strange play-by-play commentator in the wheelchair took a commercial break and refocused his attention to the boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, who was sitting nearby with his very old grandmother.
“Do you have a dream, Son? If you do, you gotta follow that dream, Son. Know what I’m sayin’?” he said as the boy feigned disinterest from the awkwardness in the air. Though the play-by-play had stopped for now, this peculiar moment seemed like a staged, uncanny transmission of a sports event with a nightmare broadcaster.
I was wondering if the man actually thought this kid would have any interest in what he had to say. Maybe he should have put a different way, something like, “Follow your dreams son. Or you could end up crazy some day, shouting on a bus like me.”
Luckily for me my stop came up. And as I got off the rear of the bus, two Transit Detail police officers stepped on to escort the commentator off, indicating this hell ride had gone on long enough, well before I got on the bus.
When I got to the field house for my game of footy, I noticed I didn’t have my shin pads, which are required by the officials if you actually want to play. Not a big deal, though. I just exercised the age-old soccer trick of applying semi shin pads made out of a few inches of paper towels from the bathroom and extra tape. But after that, I felt like the loud passenger’s disaster karma followed me from the bus and onto the pitch.
During warm ups, I fielded a few shots but then took a shot to the groin from Hank, my own team mate. With his customary clinical scoring prowess he hit me square in the balls with painful execution. I got up of the floor feeling dizzy though my head had nothing to do with the collision. And for a moment, I have to admit, I felt totally “messed up”, like my groin itself got hit by that bus.
After the game kicked off, we played reasonably well but fell behind to this team we had beaten handily before. Later in the game bus karma struck again, I took another ball straight to the face from the other team trying to score. I recovered just fine thinking that today was not my day to leave the house.
After 45 minutes on the pitch, we went down 4 to 3 against our opponent, in a long, drawn out, low scoring game. Indoor soccer, like every other sport –-and bus rides too— are unpredictable, and you just have to take and work with what comes your way; meanwhile doing your best to make it a great game.
But at the conclusion of the match, I was wary of more bus hell karma. As you could guess, I decided on the way home I was definitely getting a ride.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
He recovered just fine from both warm ups and the bus ride.
Written words © 2011. Pics courtesy of ebaumsworld.com. CTA bus art depiction by the late schizophrenic rapper/artist Wesley Willis.
About three years ago I was on a city bus on the way to one of my adult intramural soccer games. Typically I try to avoid the bus when I can, but on this early evening in Chicago I didn’t have the car and the sports complex hosting my game was west of the el train, so the Chicago Transit bus it was.
Besides the usual crowd of people minding their own business on the way home from work, there was a man in a wheel chair who was restless, unruly and downright obnoxious. He was doing a UFC fighting style play-by-play of the entire bus ride, while sort of telling the driver what to do. Meanwhile he seemed to be warning every one of the perils of the road.
As the CTA bus sped up from 20 miles per hour to a blistering 30 the guy in the wheelchair pipes in and really hits his high notes.
“You almost hit that curb and if you did that guy woulda flown through that windshield and OH that woulda been MESSED UP! Sheeeeit…” Sure, the guy in the wheelchair was exaggerating big time. At 30 miles per hour nobody flies anywhere. But at least this “bus seat driver” was enjoying himself.
A few people got on and a few people got off, and this is typical of the CTA bus and city life. Often people in the big city coexist side by side without paying too much mind to the person next to them. They go about their business and don’t bother with much besides their business. And even though I’ve lived in the city for a decade and a half, maybe the fact that I grew up in the peaceful and (at times) boring suburbs makes me take notice of city’s odd performers. But this guy really wasn’t too hard to notice.
I was playing goal keeper that night for an indoor game, so I used this bus time to tape up my hands. This was something that usually drew a few strange glances since I don’t exactly look like a boxer. But today nobody paid much mind to me since the live entertainment was at the front of the bus.
“You almost hit that dude crossing the street and damn, he woulda went down on the ground and got CRUSHED! That woulda been MESSED UP! DAMN!” Still, nobody seemed to be amused or even fazed except for me. Maybe they were just avoiding eye contact.
We were the stars and cast on a city bus sitcom from Hell.
This guy in the wheel chair didn’t seem to be certifiably crazy, but did, based on his scruffy appearance and dirty clothes, look to be chronically homeless or maybe just one of the city’s more eccentric outcasts. And he wasn’t really bothering anybody individually, just all of us mildly as a collective cast on a sitcom from Hell. But it wasn’t until kids got on the bus that his shtick heightened its colorful language.
The bus got rolling again at regular speed but eventually made an abrupt stop to comply with regular Chicago traffic. Some bike messenger zipped by us, as they’re known to do, cutting in front of the halted bus and then shot between the next lanes to the left.
“If that guy was there a second ago, he woulda got FUCKED UP! On his bike too! BAM!" he said.
“Shut up and watch your language!” the bus driver asserted, “Or get off the bus, OK?,” now getting fed up with the unnecessary antics from this one guy.
Subsequently, the strange play-by-play commentator in the wheelchair took a commercial break and refocused his attention to the boy, maybe 9 or 10 years old, who was sitting nearby with his very old grandmother.
“Do you have a dream, Son? If you do, you gotta follow that dream, Son. Know what I’m sayin’?” he said as the boy feigned disinterest from the awkwardness in the air. Though the play-by-play had stopped for now, this peculiar moment seemed like a staged, uncanny transmission of a sports event with a nightmare broadcaster.
I was wondering if the man actually thought this kid would have any interest in what he had to say. Maybe he should have put a different way, something like, “Follow your dreams son. Or you could end up crazy some day, shouting on a bus like me.”
Luckily for me my stop came up. And as I got off the rear of the bus, two Transit Detail police officers stepped on to escort the commentator off, indicating this hell ride had gone on long enough, well before I got on the bus.
When I got to the field house for my game of footy, I noticed I didn’t have my shin pads, which are required by the officials if you actually want to play. Not a big deal, though. I just exercised the age-old soccer trick of applying semi shin pads made out of a few inches of paper towels from the bathroom and extra tape. But after that, I felt like the loud passenger’s disaster karma followed me from the bus and onto the pitch.
"Welcome to the CTA, home of your play-by-play hell ride."
During warm ups, I fielded a few shots but then took a shot to the groin from Hank, my own team mate. With his customary clinical scoring prowess he hit me square in the balls with painful execution. I got up of the floor feeling dizzy though my head had nothing to do with the collision. And for a moment, I have to admit, I felt totally “messed up”, like my groin itself got hit by that bus.
After the game kicked off, we played reasonably well but fell behind to this team we had beaten handily before. Later in the game bus karma struck again, I took another ball straight to the face from the other team trying to score. I recovered just fine thinking that today was not my day to leave the house.
After 45 minutes on the pitch, we went down 4 to 3 against our opponent, in a long, drawn out, low scoring game. Indoor soccer, like every other sport –-and bus rides too— are unpredictable, and you just have to take and work with what comes your way; meanwhile doing your best to make it a great game.
But at the conclusion of the match, I was wary of more bus hell karma. As you could guess, I decided on the way home I was definitely getting a ride.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
He recovered just fine from both warm ups and the bus ride.
Written words © 2011. Pics courtesy of ebaumsworld.com. CTA bus art depiction by the late schizophrenic rapper/artist Wesley Willis.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Respectfully Yours, New York / New Jersey.
There’s an old joke that used to float around eastern Pennsylvania when I was a kid, and I know it by heart. Along with knowing who Jim O’Brien and Jerry Penacoli were, knowing this joke is another true test of your provenance if you grew up in the years between the two times that the Phillies won the Series.
But it’s not necessarily a Philly joke, I don’t think, because when I first heard it I was at summer camp up in the Poconos, and if I remember right, I think I learned the joke from a couple of other camper kids from Staten Island. Anyhow, it goes like this:
Q: What’s the difference between trash and a New Jersey girl?
A: Trash get’s picked up.
Now, sure, that joke is not fair. That is unless by “trash” you're talking about the Kevin Smith film, “Jersey Girl”. Most people I know in Philly and around the area really do like New Jersey for many things: its shores, its comfortable combination of suburbia and proximity to the cities; and even cuisine, which once in a while garners the accolades of “Best New York Style Pizza” and “Best Philly Cheesesteak” according to the magazines. And if you have a little bit of Amish in you or you enjoy the taste of innards you can find many breakfast spots in places like Cape May and Wildwood Crest that even serve scrapple with your cozy morning eggs. New Jersey is a nice place to live with cool people everywhere. Even Jersey girls.
But when it comes to sports and sports fan rivalries, that’s a-whole-nother set of trash. In fact, New Jersey, the land that sits by default between New York and Philadelphia is a wasteland of sports trash talk that never seems to get picked up.
Somehow, a week into the NFL Playoffs, the Eagles crashed out while the New York Giants (who play in New Jersey actually) never made it in, even with a 10 and 6 record. Meanwhile, the Seattle Seahawks, who could not even manage to win the majority of their games this season, look set to challenge for a trip to the NFC Conference Championship.
Yet on the other side of the league, the AFC’s Jets, former denizens of old Shea Stadium who now play at the New Jersey Meadowlands, slipped by the mighty Colts only to find they’ll meet up this weekend with the Patriots in New England. And if odds are correct, the Jets won’t be playing again in Jersey any time soon.
This kinda bums me out just like it bums out everyone back home too. After stealing Cliff Lee right under the nose of the Yankees and a last minute kick return touchdown and win over the Giants at the Meadowlands, Philly fans were hoping to get the chance to meet the Giants in the playoffs, with the possibility of adding insult to injury. And if you’ve ever seen the film Big Fan, starring Patton Oswalt, you get a sense of how bad Giants fans dislike the Eagles and Eagles fans even more. I always think that the rivalry between team’s fans makes the competition ever sweeter.
But instead of rattling cages against the Giants, Philly got to host the Green Bay Packers and their polite fans, as the Pack politely escorted the home team to an early off-season, beating Philadelphia 21-16. My sense about things and personal finger on the football pulse of people I know seems to suggest that after a back to back spanking by the Dallas Cowboys last season, in game 16 and in the first week of the playoffs, Eagles fans wanted to reconcile this season with the last one by rehashing the other division rivalry.
A New York / Philly mash up in the post season would have been the icing on the sweetest cake: a soufflé, half baked of an awful season for Dallas and the other half sugared with the failure of Donovan McNabb at Washington with the Redskins.
What I am getting at is that Philly fans wanted to do what they do best, cheer their team and talk trash about the neighbors. Sure we boo Santa, and sometimes we throw icicles. But that’s not what Philly fans do best. Not joking.
With nothing going on football-wise in Jersey or Philly now, it’s back to civil discourse and good behavior for a while. Until then, New Jersey fans, we’re respectfully yours.
But wait…I guess there’s always hockey season, isn’t there?
Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Where he comes from “a-whole-nother” is actually a word.
Written words © 2010. Love note picture courtesy of Tom Weisbecker.
A friendly note for a New Jersey Devil fan. You weren't expecting a mint on your pillow were you?
But it’s not necessarily a Philly joke, I don’t think, because when I first heard it I was at summer camp up in the Poconos, and if I remember right, I think I learned the joke from a couple of other camper kids from Staten Island. Anyhow, it goes like this:
Q: What’s the difference between trash and a New Jersey girl?
A: Trash get’s picked up.
Now, sure, that joke is not fair. That is unless by “trash” you're talking about the Kevin Smith film, “Jersey Girl”. Most people I know in Philly and around the area really do like New Jersey for many things: its shores, its comfortable combination of suburbia and proximity to the cities; and even cuisine, which once in a while garners the accolades of “Best New York Style Pizza” and “Best Philly Cheesesteak” according to the magazines. And if you have a little bit of Amish in you or you enjoy the taste of innards you can find many breakfast spots in places like Cape May and Wildwood Crest that even serve scrapple with your cozy morning eggs. New Jersey is a nice place to live with cool people everywhere. Even Jersey girls.
But when it comes to sports and sports fan rivalries, that’s a-whole-nother set of trash. In fact, New Jersey, the land that sits by default between New York and Philadelphia is a wasteland of sports trash talk that never seems to get picked up.
Somehow, a week into the NFL Playoffs, the Eagles crashed out while the New York Giants (who play in New Jersey actually) never made it in, even with a 10 and 6 record. Meanwhile, the Seattle Seahawks, who could not even manage to win the majority of their games this season, look set to challenge for a trip to the NFC Conference Championship.
Yet on the other side of the league, the AFC’s Jets, former denizens of old Shea Stadium who now play at the New Jersey Meadowlands, slipped by the mighty Colts only to find they’ll meet up this weekend with the Patriots in New England. And if odds are correct, the Jets won’t be playing again in Jersey any time soon.
This kinda bums me out just like it bums out everyone back home too. After stealing Cliff Lee right under the nose of the Yankees and a last minute kick return touchdown and win over the Giants at the Meadowlands, Philly fans were hoping to get the chance to meet the Giants in the playoffs, with the possibility of adding insult to injury. And if you’ve ever seen the film Big Fan, starring Patton Oswalt, you get a sense of how bad Giants fans dislike the Eagles and Eagles fans even more. I always think that the rivalry between team’s fans makes the competition ever sweeter.
But instead of rattling cages against the Giants, Philly got to host the Green Bay Packers and their polite fans, as the Pack politely escorted the home team to an early off-season, beating Philadelphia 21-16. My sense about things and personal finger on the football pulse of people I know seems to suggest that after a back to back spanking by the Dallas Cowboys last season, in game 16 and in the first week of the playoffs, Eagles fans wanted to reconcile this season with the last one by rehashing the other division rivalry.
A New York / Philly mash up in the post season would have been the icing on the sweetest cake: a soufflé, half baked of an awful season for Dallas and the other half sugared with the failure of Donovan McNabb at Washington with the Redskins.
What I am getting at is that Philly fans wanted to do what they do best, cheer their team and talk trash about the neighbors. Sure we boo Santa, and sometimes we throw icicles. But that’s not what Philly fans do best. Not joking.
With nothing going on football-wise in Jersey or Philly now, it’s back to civil discourse and good behavior for a while. Until then, New Jersey fans, we’re respectfully yours.
But wait…I guess there’s always hockey season, isn’t there?
Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Where he comes from “a-whole-nother” is actually a word.
Written words © 2010. Love note picture courtesy of Tom Weisbecker.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sports Philandering, or Free Love?
If you're a football fan then bowl game season is rife with opportunities to try on different hats in rooting for different teams. You might see football fans cheer for a small school in a bowl game just because they are the under dogs. Or, because by beating their competition it might assure your team a better spot in the national rankings.
Yesterday was the first time all season that friends of mine who are Ohio State fans set aside their personal bias and to cheer for the Big Ten teams in their respective bowl games. Likewise, fans of Michigan and Northwestern visibly did the same, cheering for normal in-season rivals, not to mention that the ESPN Radio guys were talking all day about "Big Ten Love".
Unfortunately for this temporary Big Ten harmony, it was a bad day overall, as Wisconsin and Northwestern lost narrowly. Worse yet, Michigan and Michigan State each got trounced by SEC teams by more than 5 touchdowns a piece, to Bama and Mississippi State, respectively. I think the growth of the Big Ten beyond ten teams may have something to do with it, but I also think that courteous and neighborly Midwesternism makes the college football fans west of the Allegheny Mountains root for the conference as a whole.
My original home base of Philadelphia is a big sports town, and in my view when it comes to college sports, basketball seems to be king in generating the most interest and college sports angst. But basketball fans there have the luxury of the fact that their teams in the “Big 5” (Penn, Temple, Villanova, LaSalle and St. Joe’s) are spread throughout the Atlantic Ten, Ivy League, and Big East conferences.
Still, when the Big 5 teams play each other the there’s no love lost for sure, like with Big Ten football on a normal week. But without a formal Big 5 tournament, the Philly Big 5 champion is determined by who bagged the best results against local rivals. After that, one or two Philadelphia schools go onto March Madness as they have for 33 consecutive years without so much as a pat on the back or a good luck salute from the city’s other rival fans. So, as a lifelong Villanova fan (and someone raised Catholic) I can’t say I care too much what St Joe’s makes of the tournament. If the Hawks make it in, good for them and good for the city, I guess.
Likewise, come Tuesday night I doubt that there will be a ton of Penn State fans pulling real hard for Ohio State to beat Arkansas just so the Big Ten can look good. And they sure as hell won’t be cheering for Pitt in the Compass Bowl on January 8th, whether or not it makes Pennsylvania look good.
So it must be a Midwestern thing, this cordial approach to spectating. Big Ten football is one thing, but I’ve noticed this tendency --sports philandering you could call it-- in more extreme forms in and around Chicago and other places in the center of the country.
I know a few people in Chicago who hail from St Louis and, as Cards fans, follow the Cubs during baseball season and generally have stated that they hope for the Cubs to do well. This doesn’t make a bit of sense since the Cardinals and Cubs are in the same division, making it a zero sum game since only one can win the NL Central and get an assured pass to the playoffs. Then again, this friendly sentiment could be some sort of Cardinals mind trick.
Plus, last week, Bears fans that got out to watch the Eagles / Vikings game at a Bears-only-no-Vikings-fans bar were cheering vocally for the Vikings. I noticed that every time the Vikings, who ended up winning, did something marginally good, there were positive chirps from the beer-buzzed pre-Christmas Bears bar crowd. The sports philandering that occurred on this foggy night, however, was solely the pleasure-seeking type of philandering; since a loss for the Eagles meant a playoff bye and a week of rest for the Bears.
Even better, I have heard over the years from Bears fans how much they like Lambeau Field and enjoy the trip to Green Bay to play the Packers, as they probably did Sunday. Sure, Lambeau has a nice atmosphere. And if their habits stay the same, most of these Bears fans on the road home would have, I am certain, stopped to pick up some Wisconsin brats and cheese curds on the way. Yet, I’d be hard pressed to think that Eagles fans in Dallas would stay an extra hour to shop at the original Neiman Marcus.
“People in the Midwest are just nicer,” my wife explains. Could be. No wait... they’re definitely nicer come to think of it. But I don’t think that totally explains it all.
One thought came to mind at the conclusion of my holiday week away, at the graveyard where my late father-in-law is buried. Our visit is a usual thing when we’re in Ohio for a few days, and I remember Doug as a great guy who loved life, good food, golf, and college football. Doug had, while marginally supporting his childhood home team of South Carolina, adopted the Ohio State Buckeyes as another home team at home.
Sure, Doug was a Buckeyes fan, but he was rather shown up by all the other sports fans in this cemetery. I saw plenty of gravestones with Ohio State logos, plus several representing other sports teams like Michigan State, Miami U and the Cincinnati Reds, plus a few with Bengals stripes on them not to mention the local Centerville High School Elks crest.
Maybe what it is, is this: That fans in the Midwest love their sport and feel secure enough in their fandom not only to take it to the grave, but also to share a little of their affections while living. And if that’s the case, it’s not philandering but free love.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Like others do now, he plans to follow sports someday from the grave.
Written words and pics © 2011
Yesterday was the first time all season that friends of mine who are Ohio State fans set aside their personal bias and to cheer for the Big Ten teams in their respective bowl games. Likewise, fans of Michigan and Northwestern visibly did the same, cheering for normal in-season rivals, not to mention that the ESPN Radio guys were talking all day about "Big Ten Love".
Unfortunately for this temporary Big Ten harmony, it was a bad day overall, as Wisconsin and Northwestern lost narrowly. Worse yet, Michigan and Michigan State each got trounced by SEC teams by more than 5 touchdowns a piece, to Bama and Mississippi State, respectively. I think the growth of the Big Ten beyond ten teams may have something to do with it, but I also think that courteous and neighborly Midwesternism makes the college football fans west of the Allegheny Mountains root for the conference as a whole.
My original home base of Philadelphia is a big sports town, and in my view when it comes to college sports, basketball seems to be king in generating the most interest and college sports angst. But basketball fans there have the luxury of the fact that their teams in the “Big 5” (Penn, Temple, Villanova, LaSalle and St. Joe’s) are spread throughout the Atlantic Ten, Ivy League, and Big East conferences.
Still, when the Big 5 teams play each other the there’s no love lost for sure, like with Big Ten football on a normal week. But without a formal Big 5 tournament, the Philly Big 5 champion is determined by who bagged the best results against local rivals. After that, one or two Philadelphia schools go onto March Madness as they have for 33 consecutive years without so much as a pat on the back or a good luck salute from the city’s other rival fans. So, as a lifelong Villanova fan (and someone raised Catholic) I can’t say I care too much what St Joe’s makes of the tournament. If the Hawks make it in, good for them and good for the city, I guess.
Likewise, come Tuesday night I doubt that there will be a ton of Penn State fans pulling real hard for Ohio State to beat Arkansas just so the Big Ten can look good. And they sure as hell won’t be cheering for Pitt in the Compass Bowl on January 8th, whether or not it makes Pennsylvania look good.
So it must be a Midwestern thing, this cordial approach to spectating. Big Ten football is one thing, but I’ve noticed this tendency --sports philandering you could call it-- in more extreme forms in and around Chicago and other places in the center of the country.
I know a few people in Chicago who hail from St Louis and, as Cards fans, follow the Cubs during baseball season and generally have stated that they hope for the Cubs to do well. This doesn’t make a bit of sense since the Cardinals and Cubs are in the same division, making it a zero sum game since only one can win the NL Central and get an assured pass to the playoffs. Then again, this friendly sentiment could be some sort of Cardinals mind trick.
Plus, last week, Bears fans that got out to watch the Eagles / Vikings game at a Bears-only-no-Vikings-fans bar were cheering vocally for the Vikings. I noticed that every time the Vikings, who ended up winning, did something marginally good, there were positive chirps from the beer-buzzed pre-Christmas Bears bar crowd. The sports philandering that occurred on this foggy night, however, was solely the pleasure-seeking type of philandering; since a loss for the Eagles meant a playoff bye and a week of rest for the Bears.
Even better, I have heard over the years from Bears fans how much they like Lambeau Field and enjoy the trip to Green Bay to play the Packers, as they probably did Sunday. Sure, Lambeau has a nice atmosphere. And if their habits stay the same, most of these Bears fans on the road home would have, I am certain, stopped to pick up some Wisconsin brats and cheese curds on the way. Yet, I’d be hard pressed to think that Eagles fans in Dallas would stay an extra hour to shop at the original Neiman Marcus.
“People in the Midwest are just nicer,” my wife explains. Could be. No wait... they’re definitely nicer come to think of it. But I don’t think that totally explains it all.
Carolina fans only. Besides, Clemson fans don't own shoes.
One thought came to mind at the conclusion of my holiday week away, at the graveyard where my late father-in-law is buried. Our visit is a usual thing when we’re in Ohio for a few days, and I remember Doug as a great guy who loved life, good food, golf, and college football. Doug had, while marginally supporting his childhood home team of South Carolina, adopted the Ohio State Buckeyes as another home team at home.
Sure, Doug was a Buckeyes fan, but he was rather shown up by all the other sports fans in this cemetery. I saw plenty of gravestones with Ohio State logos, plus several representing other sports teams like Michigan State, Miami U and the Cincinnati Reds, plus a few with Bengals stripes on them not to mention the local Centerville High School Elks crest.
Maybe what it is, is this: That fans in the Midwest love their sport and feel secure enough in their fandom not only to take it to the grave, but also to share a little of their affections while living. And if that’s the case, it’s not philandering but free love.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Like others do now, he plans to follow sports someday from the grave.
Written words and pics © 2011
Sunday, December 12, 2010
2010's Ten Best Running Sports Jokes
The best part about a joke, particularly the kind of joke that enjoyed by you at the expense of someone else, is that it is not meant to be a joke.
Some of 2010’s most enjoyable sports moments were completely unintentional; others borne out of the silliness that is the sports life.
1. Vuvuzelas.
Nobody in the world had any idea what “vuvuzela” meant until spectators and commentators alike started complaining about the constant buzz from these horns throughout the game.
Annoyed TV pundits suggested everything from quieter horns to horns that sound less buzzy and more like real horns (maybe “hornier” horns), to the idea that maybe more goals scored would shut these fans and their horns up. Fat chance. But at least you can now pronounce vuvuzela. Hopefully.
2. The Chicago Bears stink, but are good.
Now in pole position to clinch the NFC North, questions have lingered for over a year whether Jay Cutler is as good as they say or just a primadonna with an occasionally accurate arm.
Then, there were questions about whether the Bears’ offensive line could play in keeping with the NFL’s rumored under-the-table policy of protecting quarterbacks from getting clobbered. But after eeking out wins against their division rivals and beating the Eagles and an early-season Cowboys team at home, it seems that Lovie Smith may be asked to come back. Likewise, Cutler is playing his team to their potential, and the Bears will start to be taken seriously so long as they make it to the playoffs without getting embarrassed.
3. Brett Favre’s phone antics
There’s not much new news here, but since I wrote last winter about how great Brett Favre is an how everyone lives him, maybe I should have taken a cue from “There’s Something About Mary” a film from ten years ago that placed Favre in a bit part as the some time on-and-off boyfriend of a beautiful blonde who kept referring to a mysterious man named just “Brett”. Then again, that was back before we could text and take dirty pics on our cell phones.
We all know what he did, with texts and pictures (allegedly) to a woman who worked for the New York Jets while he was there as starting QB. The sports pundits keep beating the scandal of it to death, but what most of us, those who have followed pro sports and (by default) pro sports celebrities for years, found surprising is that Favre was actually stupid enough to take part in this sort of activity.
4. England’s goalkeeper, Robert Green
Actually a decent goalie in the English League, Green, the #1 at West Ham United, makes the blunder of a lifetime as he mishandles a weak, slow tip of the boot of USA’s Clint Dempsey, which evens the score to 1-1.
Somehow, after floundering around against Algeria in a drab 0-0 tie, England advances to the next round before self-destructing against Germany, who beat them 4-1.
And just to top himself, Green did it again, yesterday, on December 11th against Man City in front of his home crowd.
5. The New York Yankees choke, again.
You have to give the Texas Rangers credit for being a good team, motivated by a great coach, who focused them and took the Rangers to the next level in reaching the World Series.
But with a $206 million payroll and an average Yankee salary at $3 million above the median, one might expect the Yankees to make the ALCS more of a series then they did.
But like most non-Yankee fans, I am actually glad they didn’t.
6. Danica Puts Her Foot in Her Mouth Instead of on the Accelerator
Danica Patrick probably gets more scrutiny, unfairly, than the average racing talent because she is after all the only woman out there. But she should have known better, in such a skeptical, male-dominated environment, than to criticize her car, criticize her techs &track crew, and let it get out to the public.
Her first NASCAR start, also in 2010, was marred by a 12 car accident, and she’s continued to have some growing pains with NASCAR, posting unimpressive finishes.
Not surprising, some NASCAR folk complained that Patrick’s low body weight, as a petite and fit woman, could give her an unfair advantage. But with her talent still there, let’s hope it was only a few ignorant boos and media noise that took her off track a bit in 2010.
7. Ben Roethlisberger is done being an idiot.
A year after winning his second Super Bowl, Big Ben got himself into some Kobe Bryant style media trouble. Last time he won a Super Bowl, he only jeopardized his entire career and livelihood by falling off a motorcycle without a license or a helmet.
Along with being suspended four games without pay, Big Ben was sentenced to undertake an NFL “professional behavior evaluation”. Better yet, Roethlisberger was recently lampooned on South Park’s episode entitled “Sexual Healing”.
8. Arena Football, not an April Fools joke. Nor the USFL either.
Arena Football re-launched itself on April Fools Day, but it was not a joke. However, their choice of the day to make their official announcement might call their thought process into question.
But, as a consolation, the USFL, known for it’s corrupt sounding team names like the Gunslingers, the Maulers, the Bandits, and the Outlaws, heralded its own return too. The USFL’s last announcement (which can be found at http://www.thenewusfl.com/ ) was that they are back, but not til 2012, if then.
9. The Dallas Cowboys going nowhere at 1 and 7.
The Cowboys were looking good at the top of the power rankings and average fans like me who don’t root for the Cowboys were bracing for Tony Romo and company to light the NFL on fire, and make it miserable for all of us.
The Cowboys still have a ton of talent on the team, but forgot one important ingredient to a Super Bowl run. That ingredient: WINNING GAMES. The Cowboys won one of their first eight games and saw long time Coach Wade Phillips tossed out into the parking lot with his belongings.
But with a new coach and Cowboys legend Don Meredith in Heaven, maybe the Cowboys can save some face and play somewhere near their abilities, if it behooves them.
10. Mayweather ducks Pacman, Dances with the Stars.
Seasoned boxer and sometime champion, Floyd Mayweather, Jr., spent the entirety of 2010 and some months before this year ducking Manny “Pacman” Pacquaio.
His reasoning could be sound, given that many pro boxing experts consider the undefeated Pacman the best fighter pound for pound in the history of the sport. However, Mayweather blames Pacman’s camp for not being able to come to a deal.
And besides, as evidence of his participation in Dancing with the Stars, he’s a currently working on his showboating and salsa moves.
-----
Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Besides that, he’s a very busy dancer as well.
Written words © 2010. Breakers helmet pic courtesy of The New USFL, and pic of Green courtesy of cnn.com
Some of 2010’s most enjoyable sports moments were completely unintentional; others borne out of the silliness that is the sports life.
If you thought watching the World Cup in a bar got you some peace, forget it.
1. Vuvuzelas.
Nobody in the world had any idea what “vuvuzela” meant until spectators and commentators alike started complaining about the constant buzz from these horns throughout the game.
Annoyed TV pundits suggested everything from quieter horns to horns that sound less buzzy and more like real horns (maybe “hornier” horns), to the idea that maybe more goals scored would shut these fans and their horns up. Fat chance. But at least you can now pronounce vuvuzela. Hopefully.
2. The Chicago Bears stink, but are good.
Now in pole position to clinch the NFC North, questions have lingered for over a year whether Jay Cutler is as good as they say or just a primadonna with an occasionally accurate arm.
Then, there were questions about whether the Bears’ offensive line could play in keeping with the NFL’s rumored under-the-table policy of protecting quarterbacks from getting clobbered. But after eeking out wins against their division rivals and beating the Eagles and an early-season Cowboys team at home, it seems that Lovie Smith may be asked to come back. Likewise, Cutler is playing his team to their potential, and the Bears will start to be taken seriously so long as they make it to the playoffs without getting embarrassed.
3. Brett Favre’s phone antics
There’s not much new news here, but since I wrote last winter about how great Brett Favre is an how everyone lives him, maybe I should have taken a cue from “There’s Something About Mary” a film from ten years ago that placed Favre in a bit part as the some time on-and-off boyfriend of a beautiful blonde who kept referring to a mysterious man named just “Brett”. Then again, that was back before we could text and take dirty pics on our cell phones.
We all know what he did, with texts and pictures (allegedly) to a woman who worked for the New York Jets while he was there as starting QB. The sports pundits keep beating the scandal of it to death, but what most of us, those who have followed pro sports and (by default) pro sports celebrities for years, found surprising is that Favre was actually stupid enough to take part in this sort of activity.
4. England’s goalkeeper, Robert Green
Actually a decent goalie in the English League, Green, the #1 at West Ham United, makes the blunder of a lifetime as he mishandles a weak, slow tip of the boot of USA’s Clint Dempsey, which evens the score to 1-1.
"Oh, Crap !" and the goal that really shouldn't have gone in.
Somehow, after floundering around against Algeria in a drab 0-0 tie, England advances to the next round before self-destructing against Germany, who beat them 4-1.
And just to top himself, Green did it again, yesterday, on December 11th against Man City in front of his home crowd.
5. The New York Yankees choke, again.
You have to give the Texas Rangers credit for being a good team, motivated by a great coach, who focused them and took the Rangers to the next level in reaching the World Series.
But with a $206 million payroll and an average Yankee salary at $3 million above the median, one might expect the Yankees to make the ALCS more of a series then they did.
But like most non-Yankee fans, I am actually glad they didn’t.
6. Danica Puts Her Foot in Her Mouth Instead of on the Accelerator
Danica Patrick probably gets more scrutiny, unfairly, than the average racing talent because she is after all the only woman out there. But she should have known better, in such a skeptical, male-dominated environment, than to criticize her car, criticize her techs &track crew, and let it get out to the public.
Her first NASCAR start, also in 2010, was marred by a 12 car accident, and she’s continued to have some growing pains with NASCAR, posting unimpressive finishes.
Not surprising, some NASCAR folk complained that Patrick’s low body weight, as a petite and fit woman, could give her an unfair advantage. But with her talent still there, let’s hope it was only a few ignorant boos and media noise that took her off track a bit in 2010.
7. Ben Roethlisberger is done being an idiot.
A year after winning his second Super Bowl, Big Ben got himself into some Kobe Bryant style media trouble. Last time he won a Super Bowl, he only jeopardized his entire career and livelihood by falling off a motorcycle without a license or a helmet.
Along with being suspended four games without pay, Big Ben was sentenced to undertake an NFL “professional behavior evaluation”. Better yet, Roethlisberger was recently lampooned on South Park’s episode entitled “Sexual Healing”.
8. Arena Football, not an April Fools joke. Nor the USFL either.
Arena Football re-launched itself on April Fools Day, but it was not a joke. However, their choice of the day to make their official announcement might call their thought process into question.
Rejoice! The Boston/Portland/New Orleans Breakers are back!
But, as a consolation, the USFL, known for it’s corrupt sounding team names like the Gunslingers, the Maulers, the Bandits, and the Outlaws, heralded its own return too. The USFL’s last announcement (which can be found at http://www.thenewusfl.com/ ) was that they are back, but not til 2012, if then.
9. The Dallas Cowboys going nowhere at 1 and 7.
The Cowboys were looking good at the top of the power rankings and average fans like me who don’t root for the Cowboys were bracing for Tony Romo and company to light the NFL on fire, and make it miserable for all of us.
The Cowboys still have a ton of talent on the team, but forgot one important ingredient to a Super Bowl run. That ingredient: WINNING GAMES. The Cowboys won one of their first eight games and saw long time Coach Wade Phillips tossed out into the parking lot with his belongings.
But with a new coach and Cowboys legend Don Meredith in Heaven, maybe the Cowboys can save some face and play somewhere near their abilities, if it behooves them.
I took this photo during halftime of the England / Germany game. And this sums it all up.
10. Mayweather ducks Pacman, Dances with the Stars.
Seasoned boxer and sometime champion, Floyd Mayweather, Jr., spent the entirety of 2010 and some months before this year ducking Manny “Pacman” Pacquaio.
His reasoning could be sound, given that many pro boxing experts consider the undefeated Pacman the best fighter pound for pound in the history of the sport. However, Mayweather blames Pacman’s camp for not being able to come to a deal.
And besides, as evidence of his participation in Dancing with the Stars, he’s a currently working on his showboating and salsa moves.
-----
Andy Frye writes about sports and life a couple times a month here, and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Besides that, he’s a very busy dancer as well.
Written words © 2010. Breakers helmet pic courtesy of The New USFL, and pic of Green courtesy of cnn.com
Monday, November 29, 2010
Somebody Please Help the NFL Find Its Spine
I’d hate to have been a parent with my kid at the Titans / Texans game yesterday in Houston watching in shock, surprise and maybe horror as Andre Johnson and Cortland Finnegan got into a fist fight after ripping off each other’s helmets after the play broke up.
Granted, I don’t go to many NFL games and probably wouldn’t take my kid, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see that. Must have been a tough work day as a millionaire on either one of these mediocre teams, but sometimes having gainful employment is difficult, and personality conflicts are part of the job.
These days we’re hearing a lot of complaints from players and pro football pundits that the NFL has allegedly gone soft. Their argument is that the NFL has cheapened the game by not letting players hit each other harder and with more force, knocking off helmets and roughing players more and more. Moreover, such voices argue that the NFL is “protecting” quarterbacks to keep up scoring and boost ratings.
Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I remember the grand old days when stripping the ball and grabbing the face mask were both illegal; and even way, way back, when players had to actually fully enter the end zone to score a touch down, before badgering the ref to just give them the points so they could dance in the end zone. Now face masking is accepted practice and players barely need to have a foot in to be awarded points; while defensive players (in lieu of tackling their opponents) hit the ball fist-first like Gabrielle Reece during a bikini-clad beach Volleyball tourney.
When did the quality, the integrity, and the National Football League’s control of the game go down the toilet? When overpaid players started calling all the shots, that’s when.
Sure, cage match fighting as a sport is a popular rage now. And there’s a lot of money in the enterprise of watching two guys kick the crap out of each other in fighting matches staged by UFC and TapouT. Hell, even women’s roller derby touts the brawl as a part of the draw for fans. I suppose the difference is that these sports, while supported by a loyal following, are not televised across the world to potentially billions of viewers, played live on Sundays in front of tens of thousands while being underwritten by billions of advertizing dollars.
Maybe I’m reaching here, but I guess I expect the NFL and its players to be professionals at a higher level.
On the contrary, for all the barking from Football’s insiders about “just letting them play”, it is clear that pro players like Finnegan and Johnson can not handle the rougher play of today’s NFL. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had to take it to fist fighting and acting like unruly drunks at a bar yesterday.
Their “punishment”, a $25,000 fine for each of the players, is no sort of recourse to an NFL player, considering that the average NFL salary is supposedly $770,000 if you don’t count endorsements. $25,000 is merely a drop in the bucket, and a night out on the town. Or in the context of the spoiled, obnoxious man-children who occupy the pro sports rosters, $25,000 probably constitutes a night with a top notch call girl. What makes anyone think that fights like these won’t crop up again and again, if it means the player gets their name in the headlines and a slap on the wrist as a disincentive for acting like a hooligan?
For all of the money pro athletes make, it’s not too much to ask for them to act like professionals while on the field, especially while in the presence of the fans who pay their salaries through the NFL’s exorbitant ticket prices. That’s right, “professionals”, not petulant goofballs with pads and a helmet, but professionals.
With the League leveling no meaningful punishment here, I wonder at what point will the NFL actually step in and suspend players when they act like drunks at a bar. Will it be at the punching of referees? Guns and knives on the field?
Or maybe with a little help of their lawyers and media consultants --better yet some sound advice from fans-- the NFL will lift its skirt and find its manhood again soon.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. He plays soccer without a cup, but will lend one to the NFL should they suddenly grow a pair.
Written words © 2010. Soccer pics courtesy of the London Telegraph. Knicks-Heat pic courtesy of the National Basketball Association (NBA).
Granted, I don’t go to many NFL games and probably wouldn’t take my kid, but I wouldn’t have wanted to see that. Must have been a tough work day as a millionaire on either one of these mediocre teams, but sometimes having gainful employment is difficult, and personality conflicts are part of the job.
In Soccer, not considered a “real” sport by American Football’s geniuses, team mates Lee Bowyer (left) and Kieron Dyer brawl. Dyer got a 3-gan suspension, while Bowyer (who started it) was fined $200,000 and banned 4 games.
These days we’re hearing a lot of complaints from players and pro football pundits that the NFL has allegedly gone soft. Their argument is that the NFL has cheapened the game by not letting players hit each other harder and with more force, knocking off helmets and roughing players more and more. Moreover, such voices argue that the NFL is “protecting” quarterbacks to keep up scoring and boost ratings.
Perhaps I’m old fashioned, but I remember the grand old days when stripping the ball and grabbing the face mask were both illegal; and even way, way back, when players had to actually fully enter the end zone to score a touch down, before badgering the ref to just give them the points so they could dance in the end zone. Now face masking is accepted practice and players barely need to have a foot in to be awarded points; while defensive players (in lieu of tackling their opponents) hit the ball fist-first like Gabrielle Reece during a bikini-clad beach Volleyball tourney.
When did the quality, the integrity, and the National Football League’s control of the game go down the toilet? When overpaid players started calling all the shots, that’s when.
The NY Knicks lost four players to suspension in the 1997 NBA Playoffs. Not for brawling, but for coming off the bench. They lost that series after a 3-1 lead over the Miami Heat.
Sure, cage match fighting as a sport is a popular rage now. And there’s a lot of money in the enterprise of watching two guys kick the crap out of each other in fighting matches staged by UFC and TapouT. Hell, even women’s roller derby touts the brawl as a part of the draw for fans. I suppose the difference is that these sports, while supported by a loyal following, are not televised across the world to potentially billions of viewers, played live on Sundays in front of tens of thousands while being underwritten by billions of advertizing dollars.
Maybe I’m reaching here, but I guess I expect the NFL and its players to be professionals at a higher level.
On the contrary, for all the barking from Football’s insiders about “just letting them play”, it is clear that pro players like Finnegan and Johnson can not handle the rougher play of today’s NFL. Otherwise they wouldn’t have had to take it to fist fighting and acting like unruly drunks at a bar yesterday.
Eric Cantona kicks a verbally abusive fan. Later, Cantona, Manchester United's top scorer is suspended eight months, after initially being sentenced to prison.
Their “punishment”, a $25,000 fine for each of the players, is no sort of recourse to an NFL player, considering that the average NFL salary is supposedly $770,000 if you don’t count endorsements. $25,000 is merely a drop in the bucket, and a night out on the town. Or in the context of the spoiled, obnoxious man-children who occupy the pro sports rosters, $25,000 probably constitutes a night with a top notch call girl. What makes anyone think that fights like these won’t crop up again and again, if it means the player gets their name in the headlines and a slap on the wrist as a disincentive for acting like a hooligan?
For all of the money pro athletes make, it’s not too much to ask for them to act like professionals while on the field, especially while in the presence of the fans who pay their salaries through the NFL’s exorbitant ticket prices. That’s right, “professionals”, not petulant goofballs with pads and a helmet, but professionals.
With the League leveling no meaningful punishment here, I wonder at what point will the NFL actually step in and suspend players when they act like drunks at a bar. Will it be at the punching of referees? Guns and knives on the field?
Or maybe with a little help of their lawyers and media consultants --better yet some sound advice from fans-- the NFL will lift its skirt and find its manhood again soon.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex. He plays soccer without a cup, but will lend one to the NFL should they suddenly grow a pair.
Written words © 2010. Soccer pics courtesy of the London Telegraph. Knicks-Heat pic courtesy of the National Basketball Association (NBA).
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Let's Give Michael Vick a Break
On Monday Night Football this week, Michael Vick led the Philadelphia Eagles to a 59-28 victory over their NFC North rivals, the Washington Redskins, and besting the Eagles’ former quarterback Donovan McNabb. According to ESPN, Vick grabbed second place among quarterbacks all-time, in rushing yardage, but still Vick threw three touchdown passes too, as a mature, complete quarterback would.
For some, the performance probably didn’t make a difference. I hear from a lot of people back home in Philly, many of whom own dogs and are animal lovers, talk about what an animal they think Vick is for his misadventures a few years ago with his underground dog fighting outfit, Bad Newz Kennels.
As we all know, Vick rightly pled guilty back in ’07 and did almost two years in federal prison. During the trial days and the media blitz, both dismayed fans and angry dog lovers were able to shop for a plethora of Michael Vick dog chew toys like the one pictured above. Sure he deserved the criticism and the chew toy products were probably the best novelty gift since Osama bin Laden urinal cakes.
In comparison though to Vick, other pro athletes have not so easily admitted their guilt and done the time for the crime. One example, Rae Carruth, who was indicted for conspiracy to commit murder, fled the law and then hid in the trunk of a car until he was found and arrested. Also, Jayson Williams, on old NBA favorite of mine, ruined his post-NBA career as one of the more thoughtful sportscasters by accidentally shooting a friend and trying to disguise the incident as a self-inflicted gun accident. Who knows how different it would have been if Williams had not tried to cover it up.
Even guys not facing felony charges, particularly baseball players alleged to have used banned substances, have hid behind lawyers and maintained a veneer of innocence.
Both Andy Pettitte and Mark McGuire did what became the usual song and dance among many of the 89 players identified in the Mitchell Report. While being grilled before Congress about alleged drugs use, McGuire essentially pleaded the 5th Amendment, though he wasn’t (yet) on the stand before a court. And Pettitte put on a patronizing smile and made it like it wasn’t a big deal at all, just a misunderstanding.
Vick, perhaps solely on the advice of his attorneys against the charges he faced, did admit his guilt and actually stated publicly that he had done an awful thing and that maybe he “needed to grow up.” Plenty of people, who despise Vick, probably don’t think that statement means anything.
Not every athlete can be impeccable as both a performer and a professional like Derek Jeter or retired NBA great David Robinson. But Vick has long since done his time. And as an observer of sports and a fan for 38 years of my life, I still think Vick’s statement was one of the most honest and refreshing that I have ever heard about any misstep, particularly a felony.
I’m not saying you have to feel sorry for Michael Vick; or even that as an Eagles fan that you should buy and wear his jersey. Burn it, or use it as a dribble pad for your cat's litter box for all I care.
But it’s about time that people give Vick a break and let him play football.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life at here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Written words © 2010. Vick toy picture above courtesy of The Consumerist.com
For some, the performance probably didn’t make a difference. I hear from a lot of people back home in Philly, many of whom own dogs and are animal lovers, talk about what an animal they think Vick is for his misadventures a few years ago with his underground dog fighting outfit, Bad Newz Kennels.
As we all know, Vick rightly pled guilty back in ’07 and did almost two years in federal prison. During the trial days and the media blitz, both dismayed fans and angry dog lovers were able to shop for a plethora of Michael Vick dog chew toys like the one pictured above. Sure he deserved the criticism and the chew toy products were probably the best novelty gift since Osama bin Laden urinal cakes.
In comparison though to Vick, other pro athletes have not so easily admitted their guilt and done the time for the crime. One example, Rae Carruth, who was indicted for conspiracy to commit murder, fled the law and then hid in the trunk of a car until he was found and arrested. Also, Jayson Williams, on old NBA favorite of mine, ruined his post-NBA career as one of the more thoughtful sportscasters by accidentally shooting a friend and trying to disguise the incident as a self-inflicted gun accident. Who knows how different it would have been if Williams had not tried to cover it up.
Even guys not facing felony charges, particularly baseball players alleged to have used banned substances, have hid behind lawyers and maintained a veneer of innocence.
Both Andy Pettitte and Mark McGuire did what became the usual song and dance among many of the 89 players identified in the Mitchell Report. While being grilled before Congress about alleged drugs use, McGuire essentially pleaded the 5th Amendment, though he wasn’t (yet) on the stand before a court. And Pettitte put on a patronizing smile and made it like it wasn’t a big deal at all, just a misunderstanding.
Ah, Osama bin Laden TP… That was the good old days…
Vick, perhaps solely on the advice of his attorneys against the charges he faced, did admit his guilt and actually stated publicly that he had done an awful thing and that maybe he “needed to grow up.” Plenty of people, who despise Vick, probably don’t think that statement means anything.
Not every athlete can be impeccable as both a performer and a professional like Derek Jeter or retired NBA great David Robinson. But Vick has long since done his time. And as an observer of sports and a fan for 38 years of my life, I still think Vick’s statement was one of the most honest and refreshing that I have ever heard about any misstep, particularly a felony.
I’m not saying you have to feel sorry for Michael Vick; or even that as an Eagles fan that you should buy and wear his jersey. Burn it, or use it as a dribble pad for your cat's litter box for all I care.
But it’s about time that people give Vick a break and let him play football.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life at here and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Written words © 2010. Vick toy picture above courtesy of The Consumerist.com
Saturday, November 6, 2010
'Cocks, Football and Grilling Pigs
The University of South Carolina and its football team have always had a little bit of a naming dilemma in my mind.
Anyone living outside of The Palmetto State would in no way be inclined to call South Carolina “USC”, since when most people think of USC they think of the University of Southern California, the 11 time National Champions. Southern California’s football teams have spawned such NFL greats as Mike Garrett and Keyshawn Johnson, as well as Marcus Allen, Lynn Swan, Junior Seau, Ronnie Lott, all of whom have Super Bowl rings; and even a statistics monster in the now reviled OJ Simpson.
So historically, it’s no wonder that Gamecocks Football is played at the other USC. But then again, The Cockpit is on fire as we speak, and it might help to look at College Football’s rankings right now.
It’s an anomaly compared to what you would normally see in November. Oregon tops all three polls, and the rest of the Top 25 is rounded out not with the usual stalwarts, but instead by Utah, Mississippi State, Stanford, and Big 12 whipping boy Baylor. Texas, Florida, Colorado, Michigan and Southern California (that other USC) are nowhere to be found.
South Carolina, now ranked at 18 in the AP Poll knocked off #1 Bama a few weeks ago, bolstering their argument; right after the Gamecocks beat a solid, nationally ranked Georgia in the weeks prior. Carolina fans would not say they are at all surprised.
In early summer, I took my first trip down to South Carolina right before the Gamecocks domination of UCLA in the College World Series. The Gamecocks would go on to beat UCLA by allowing only two runs in two games after setting the playoff season aflame, torching rival Clemson and knocking out #1 seed Arizona State in their first game, 11-4.
But since this was June, grilling season was in full swing, and in more ways than one. I got to kick off the weekend listening to Cousin Scott jab his brother, Newton, an esteemed Air Force officer, about how Scott’s Carolina beat up on Newton’s nearby alma mater, The Citadel. I got the full story from the locals on their version of why Carolina Football is changing the SEC, and a short history of the Rise and Fall of Clemson Football, a former Roman-style empire of sorts.
Trash talk was rife while smells of barbeque filled the air as Uncle PJ grilled a large, whole pig on the hot irons. For me, the combination of these two things were absolutely wonderful.
I’ve said before that SEC sports fans, particularly football fans, have a tendency to talk trash. And they do it with such refined poise –maybe it is hospitality and Southern manners—that heighten the stakes of the upcoming came without being rude or obnoxious. Maybe more to the point, SEC Football fans have a fervor unmatched in any sport, at least on this side of the Atlantic.
No disrespect to Ohio State fans at the Horseshoe, but you don’t know crazy at a football game until you’ve sat next to 60,000 screaming yahoos dressed in bright orange at a Tennessee game. The fans are actually what make Tennessee football the “Big Orange”.
But maybe things are changing in the SEC. It has only been since 1992 that the Gamecocks have moved into the conference. Before that, Carolina Football seemed to be, at best a fringe oufit, buried in the nestles of the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) under the dominance of Clemson, Maryland, and the dirt kicked over them by that other Carolina, the North Carolina Tar Heels.
More notable, Gamecocks Football had lost all 8 of their sparse bowl game appearances from 1946 to 1988, against the likes of Indiana (a basketball school) and Miami University (that is, the other Miami, in Ohio). But after the 5-year mishmash of the Lou Holtz era at USC, Steve Spurrier seems to have really strengthened the program into a respectable and formidable one. As such, Carolina fans have a lot of reason to wear their Garnet and Black with pride.
If the momentum and Carolina football fans’ confidence can carry over to the boys on the field, then maybe a major bowl game is in the works.
Some might say the Gamecocks have had an easy schedule, but they just might grill a razorback, #17 Arkansas tonight.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Grill him a Razorback, and he'll eat it.
Written words © 2010.
Anyone living outside of The Palmetto State would in no way be inclined to call South Carolina “USC”, since when most people think of USC they think of the University of Southern California, the 11 time National Champions. Southern California’s football teams have spawned such NFL greats as Mike Garrett and Keyshawn Johnson, as well as Marcus Allen, Lynn Swan, Junior Seau, Ronnie Lott, all of whom have Super Bowl rings; and even a statistics monster in the now reviled OJ Simpson.
---------- Gamecocks Crossing: Watch your step---------------
So historically, it’s no wonder that Gamecocks Football is played at the other USC. But then again, The Cockpit is on fire as we speak, and it might help to look at College Football’s rankings right now.
It’s an anomaly compared to what you would normally see in November. Oregon tops all three polls, and the rest of the Top 25 is rounded out not with the usual stalwarts, but instead by Utah, Mississippi State, Stanford, and Big 12 whipping boy Baylor. Texas, Florida, Colorado, Michigan and Southern California (that other USC) are nowhere to be found.
South Carolina, now ranked at 18 in the AP Poll knocked off #1 Bama a few weeks ago, bolstering their argument; right after the Gamecocks beat a solid, nationally ranked Georgia in the weeks prior. Carolina fans would not say they are at all surprised.
In early summer, I took my first trip down to South Carolina right before the Gamecocks domination of UCLA in the College World Series. The Gamecocks would go on to beat UCLA by allowing only two runs in two games after setting the playoff season aflame, torching rival Clemson and knocking out #1 seed Arizona State in their first game, 11-4.
But since this was June, grilling season was in full swing, and in more ways than one. I got to kick off the weekend listening to Cousin Scott jab his brother, Newton, an esteemed Air Force officer, about how Scott’s Carolina beat up on Newton’s nearby alma mater, The Citadel. I got the full story from the locals on their version of why Carolina Football is changing the SEC, and a short history of the Rise and Fall of Clemson Football, a former Roman-style empire of sorts.
Trash talk was rife while smells of barbeque filled the air as Uncle PJ grilled a large, whole pig on the hot irons. For me, the combination of these two things were absolutely wonderful.
Gamecocks like grilling pigs and some Georgia dogs too.
I’ve said before that SEC sports fans, particularly football fans, have a tendency to talk trash. And they do it with such refined poise –maybe it is hospitality and Southern manners—that heighten the stakes of the upcoming came without being rude or obnoxious. Maybe more to the point, SEC Football fans have a fervor unmatched in any sport, at least on this side of the Atlantic.
No disrespect to Ohio State fans at the Horseshoe, but you don’t know crazy at a football game until you’ve sat next to 60,000 screaming yahoos dressed in bright orange at a Tennessee game. The fans are actually what make Tennessee football the “Big Orange”.
But maybe things are changing in the SEC. It has only been since 1992 that the Gamecocks have moved into the conference. Before that, Carolina Football seemed to be, at best a fringe oufit, buried in the nestles of the Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC) under the dominance of Clemson, Maryland, and the dirt kicked over them by that other Carolina, the North Carolina Tar Heels.
Live from Uncle Henry’s refrigerator, South Carolina Gamecocks mustard.
More notable, Gamecocks Football had lost all 8 of their sparse bowl game appearances from 1946 to 1988, against the likes of Indiana (a basketball school) and Miami University (that is, the other Miami, in Ohio). But after the 5-year mishmash of the Lou Holtz era at USC, Steve Spurrier seems to have really strengthened the program into a respectable and formidable one. As such, Carolina fans have a lot of reason to wear their Garnet and Black with pride.
If the momentum and Carolina football fans’ confidence can carry over to the boys on the field, then maybe a major bowl game is in the works.
Some might say the Gamecocks have had an easy schedule, but they just might grill a razorback, #17 Arkansas tonight.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life at MySportscomplex.blogspot.com and tweets throughout the day on Twitter at @MySportsComplex.
Grill him a Razorback, and he'll eat it.
Written words © 2010.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
11 Great Non-United Footballers
It does get tiresome for some footy fans when they read the sports pages to find that one team and its players dominate the headlines.
That's not to say that Manchester United hasn't earned its keep as a great club that can attract (and also develop the best players. It's just that sometimes you want to hear about the others.
Hear are my top 10...
1. Alan Shearer - The cream of the crop among English Premier footballers in the last decade and a half. Man United desperately wanted him in 1996, and was willing to pay ₤ 15 million. Yet they lost out to his hometown club, Newcastle, where Shearer scored 148 goals in 303 games.
2. Patrick Vieira – One of two Arsenal tough guys, Vieira was best known for great passing and keeping Roy Keane from pushing fellow Gunners around. A towering figure, Vieira centered Arsenal's constant warring against rivals Man United for years, helping guide them to the title on occasion.
3. Martin Keown – Perhaps Keown should be top of the list simply for laughing in Ruud van Nistelrooy’s face after he missed a penalty for United. Moreover, Keown was one of England’s and Arsenal’s toughest defenders, and gave hell to many a striker.
4. Steve McManaman – Not a hall of famer, for sure, Macca, like Peter Bearsley, was a great example of how a true team player adds power to the team, improving performance. Also as a humorous half time commentator for World Cup ’10, he seemed to be one of the few who was paying attention to what players were doing.
5. Steven Gerrard – Say what you will about Gerrard and the boys phoning it in for England at World Cups, but he is the midfield’s top talent in England. He adds a dimension for his team that creates chances that wouldn’t be there otherwise; and causes trouble for United and other opponents everywhere.
6. Ashley Cole – Though Arsenal fans hate him now, Cole gave the Gunners several good years and is still the league’s top left back. Maybe he’s a cruddy sportsman, but he’s got ample skill and a fire unmatched in English football.
7. Craig Bellamy – Another firey one, Bellamy through a punch at Inter’s Marco Materazzi, who is almost a foot taller, 4 years before Zidane head butted him. Though he’s played for half a dozen teams, save Liverpool, Bellamy has brought an extra kick at the end of the game to each of his club. Each time you're down and out against United, Bellamy may likely score one to get your head straight.
8. Magnus Hedman – OK, I know I’ll take flack for this one, but the Swedish goal keeper Hedman was a great keeper. Problem was that he never player for a great team and never had a top back-four in front. But his 5+ years with lowly Coventry gave him the chance to display a lot of hard work that showed us just what kind of keeper, and tough character he was.
9. Tony Adams – As England’s and Arsenal’s captain, and other center back along with Keown, Adams was both a gentleman and leader. It’s been said that he wasn’t the most physical or naturally gifted player, but made up for it with wise and studied play, and a true maturity that the game sometimes misses from its high profile players.
10. Dennis Bergkamp will admit, he’s cocky and sometimes arrogant maybe. He considered himself the best-in-the-world at his position behind the striker for Arsenal and Holland. Possibly Bergkamp was the only player in the EPL whose fearless attitude and confidence matched that of United as a club in the whole.
11. Carlos Tevez...This one is a bit of a wildcard since Tevez did play for United following a stint rescuing West Ham at the end of the season a few years ago. In 2009, when Man United balked at renewed contract talks, Tevez was picked up happily by cross town rivals Manchester City. Given his dislike of cold weather, and the fact that he is an Argentine (Argentines dont typical stay in England long) who knows where Carlos may end up. Fair to say though, where ever he ends up in coming years it will involve 1) starting for another top club and, thus 2) scoring many more goals against Manchester United.
Honorable Mention, -OR- swell guys who could have made the list had they not gone and joined United: Andy Cole, Michael Owen, Paul Scholes, Wayne Rooney, Teddy Sheringham, Rio Ferdinand, Edwin van der Sar. Nice Work, men.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and via My Sports/Complex on Facebook and @MySportsComplex on Twitter. He’s worth his weight in tech talk and trash talk.
Pics courtesy of Guardian.co.uk and Virgin Media
That's not to say that Manchester United hasn't earned its keep as a great club that can attract (and also develop the best players. It's just that sometimes you want to hear about the others.
United turned its back on contract talks, and Tevez crossed town, where he turns and scores for City against United.
Hear are my top 10...
1. Alan Shearer - The cream of the crop among English Premier footballers in the last decade and a half. Man United desperately wanted him in 1996, and was willing to pay ₤ 15 million. Yet they lost out to his hometown club, Newcastle, where Shearer scored 148 goals in 303 games.
2. Patrick Vieira – One of two Arsenal tough guys, Vieira was best known for great passing and keeping Roy Keane from pushing fellow Gunners around. A towering figure, Vieira centered Arsenal's constant warring against rivals Man United for years, helping guide them to the title on occasion.
You miss a penalty kick. Keown laughs in your face.
3. Martin Keown – Perhaps Keown should be top of the list simply for laughing in Ruud van Nistelrooy’s face after he missed a penalty for United. Moreover, Keown was one of England’s and Arsenal’s toughest defenders, and gave hell to many a striker.
4. Steve McManaman – Not a hall of famer, for sure, Macca, like Peter Bearsley, was a great example of how a true team player adds power to the team, improving performance. Also as a humorous half time commentator for World Cup ’10, he seemed to be one of the few who was paying attention to what players were doing.
5. Steven Gerrard – Say what you will about Gerrard and the boys phoning it in for England at World Cups, but he is the midfield’s top talent in England. He adds a dimension for his team that creates chances that wouldn’t be there otherwise; and causes trouble for United and other opponents everywhere.
6. Ashley Cole – Though Arsenal fans hate him now, Cole gave the Gunners several good years and is still the league’s top left back. Maybe he’s a cruddy sportsman, but he’s got ample skill and a fire unmatched in English football.
Cole is excellent at ball control; depending on what balls your speaking about
7. Craig Bellamy – Another firey one, Bellamy through a punch at Inter’s Marco Materazzi, who is almost a foot taller, 4 years before Zidane head butted him. Though he’s played for half a dozen teams, save Liverpool, Bellamy has brought an extra kick at the end of the game to each of his club. Each time you're down and out against United, Bellamy may likely score one to get your head straight.
8. Magnus Hedman – OK, I know I’ll take flack for this one, but the Swedish goal keeper Hedman was a great keeper. Problem was that he never player for a great team and never had a top back-four in front. But his 5+ years with lowly Coventry gave him the chance to display a lot of hard work that showed us just what kind of keeper, and tough character he was.
9. Tony Adams – As England’s and Arsenal’s captain, and other center back along with Keown, Adams was both a gentleman and leader. It’s been said that he wasn’t the most physical or naturally gifted player, but made up for it with wise and studied play, and a true maturity that the game sometimes misses from its high profile players.
10. Dennis Bergkamp will admit, he’s cocky and sometimes arrogant maybe. He considered himself the best-in-the-world at his position behind the striker for Arsenal and Holland. Possibly Bergkamp was the only player in the EPL whose fearless attitude and confidence matched that of United as a club in the whole.
11. Carlos Tevez...This one is a bit of a wildcard since Tevez did play for United following a stint rescuing West Ham at the end of the season a few years ago. In 2009, when Man United balked at renewed contract talks, Tevez was picked up happily by cross town rivals Manchester City. Given his dislike of cold weather, and the fact that he is an Argentine (Argentines dont typical stay in England long) who knows where Carlos may end up. Fair to say though, where ever he ends up in coming years it will involve 1) starting for another top club and, thus 2) scoring many more goals against Manchester United.
Honorable Mention, -OR- swell guys who could have made the list had they not gone and joined United: Andy Cole, Michael Owen, Paul Scholes, Wayne Rooney, Teddy Sheringham, Rio Ferdinand, Edwin van der Sar. Nice Work, men.
Andy Frye writes about sports and life here and via My Sports/Complex on Facebook and @MySportsComplex on Twitter. He’s worth his weight in tech talk and trash talk.
Pics courtesy of Guardian.co.uk and Virgin Media
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
