These are a few of our favorite things when the dog bites and the bee stings:
Mustard on scrambled eggs.
Marlboros, not the generic brand.
Parlays over straight plays (for entertainment purposes only).
Diet coke with a Big Mac and fries to keep our girlish figure.
The Meineke Car Care Bowl.
Directing the placement of the Christmas tree from a perch on the couch.
Christmas Eve shopping with the kids at the South Street Seaport and lunch at Wendy’s.
Paula Creamer’s beautiful swing and pink ball.
Laughing at ourselves when putts for double bogie lip out.
Faithful friends who are dear to us and gather near to us once more.
We are torn, torn we say! when it comes to remembering the last year of the aughts and reminiscing over a decade in this sporting life.
We learned to simulate playing golf, no small feat given our advanced age and lack of cocktail waitresses.
Our children, who advanced far beyond us in scholarship and athletic accomplishment.
Those who endured much with more grace and wit than can be measured.
The hound hotel, which can be a good place to go when the slings and arrows cloud the skies.
David Tyree’s miraculous helmet catch.
OU’s national championship against Florida State.
Boise State’s trickeration win against OU.
Of course, the 2004 Red Sox.
New Year’s resolutions are upcoming (six-pack abs are among them). Have yourself a merry little Christmas. We’ll muddle through somehow.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Time and Tide
Some think this sporting life we lead is all candy and nuts and a very merry Christmas. Let us let you in on a not- so-secret secret; it’s really ifs and buts, double faults, a chunked wedge shot and a parlay (for entertainment purposes only) that against all advice successfully calls the money line on the Pittsburgh vs. Cleveland game but not the over-under. Ouch, baby.
But all is not lost. Though the Browns and Steelers failed to get near the point total predicted, retail sales last month jumped twice as much as the consensus expected. Things are on the mend in this season of light, though youngsters are still sent marching off into the maw of endless war, perhaps the only job they can land, while, God bless them, Goldman Sachs executives make the sacrifice of taking their bonuses in stock.
We loved the player who walked out on Cincinnati Bearcat coach Brian Kelly when he told his undefeated team at its banquet that he was leaving them in the lurch before the Sugar Bowl game with Florida to take the Notre Dame job. This bold, go-to-hell response from a young scholar bodes ill for the golden domers who desire above all else relevance and enlivens hope for the future of American youth.
We are usually an optimistic sort, believing that the next drive will soar straight into the fairway, that the five-iron will land softly close to the pin and that the birdie putt will rattle into the cup. Is there a more satisfying sound than that rattle? Well, maybe the gentle snore of a well-fed baby, or new-born whippoorwills calling from the hills, as Nat King Cole crooned a million summers ago when summer was a comin’ in but fast.
Where has that world gone? Each generation when it reaches a certain age asks the same question. We recently spoke with a person dear to us who called the closing out of the “oughts” as a lost decade. Not so.
Mark Ingram, the remarkable young halfback from Flint, Michigan, playing for Alabama, tearfully and gracefully accepted the Heisman Trophy last night, ushering in a new decade for us sporting men and women. His next job is against Texas and then on to professional riches. Some 40 years from now, he might be savoring that rattle in the cup.
But all is not lost. Though the Browns and Steelers failed to get near the point total predicted, retail sales last month jumped twice as much as the consensus expected. Things are on the mend in this season of light, though youngsters are still sent marching off into the maw of endless war, perhaps the only job they can land, while, God bless them, Goldman Sachs executives make the sacrifice of taking their bonuses in stock.
We loved the player who walked out on Cincinnati Bearcat coach Brian Kelly when he told his undefeated team at its banquet that he was leaving them in the lurch before the Sugar Bowl game with Florida to take the Notre Dame job. This bold, go-to-hell response from a young scholar bodes ill for the golden domers who desire above all else relevance and enlivens hope for the future of American youth.
We are usually an optimistic sort, believing that the next drive will soar straight into the fairway, that the five-iron will land softly close to the pin and that the birdie putt will rattle into the cup. Is there a more satisfying sound than that rattle? Well, maybe the gentle snore of a well-fed baby, or new-born whippoorwills calling from the hills, as Nat King Cole crooned a million summers ago when summer was a comin’ in but fast.
Where has that world gone? Each generation when it reaches a certain age asks the same question. We recently spoke with a person dear to us who called the closing out of the “oughts” as a lost decade. Not so.
Mark Ingram, the remarkable young halfback from Flint, Michigan, playing for Alabama, tearfully and gracefully accepted the Heisman Trophy last night, ushering in a new decade for us sporting men and women. His next job is against Texas and then on to professional riches. Some 40 years from now, he might be savoring that rattle in the cup.
Monday, December 7, 2009
He Sendeth Rain...
We awoke besotted by riches yesterday morning after a college football banquet that kept this sporting man on a couch that doubles for a bed and breakfast nook, remote control in hand, watching a Far East-made flat screen for a whole half of a three-hundred-and sixty-fifth of a twirl around the star that rises in the east. You’ve seen the son of a gun, it has something to do with chlorophyll and Vitamin D.
The love handles expanded, but so did a love for a game meant for the teenager and the man child. The pro game consumes the sporting public, but the student-athletes inspire awe. After a tough day of calculus, pre-med and Shakespeare, they take to the gridiron to win one for ….
Forgive us, but when a Nazarene invests a game -- a game, mind you -- with biblical significance emblazoned under eyes that are misting over, we have to chuckle (a character flaw of ours that has others chuckling at us).
“These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33). Oh yeah?
Perhaps Tim Tebow, the formidable Florida quarterback, should have had Matthew 5:45 on his coal black strips: “For He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.”
The just being the proud Nebraska squad with a coach in a collarless sweatshirt who would have been forgiven if he ranted at the blatant rigging of the Bowl Championship Series. Time had run out on the evil empire from Austin as the wide-eyed McCoy inexplicably rolled right and threw the ball out of bounds. Any other game and the refs are jogging off the field, letting the underdogs celebrate.
But no! From out of nowhere! An extra second is allowed for a BCS scenario that was pre-ordained. OK, call us conspiracy theorists, but, hey, any other game?
Wait, there’s more.
Fresno State, attempting a game-ending two-point conversion to defeat the Fighting Illini, appeared foiled by a brilliant deflection of a pass at the goal line, but a large man captured the flying pigskin in a gut that we are approaching and trundled into the end zone for the winning points as time waned. So he’s got that going for him, which is more than we can say, having slept through the calculus final.
And then there was the holder for Pitt’s extra point. He couldn’t get the ball down and twirl the laces, giving Cincinnati a chance to come back and win a pick’em game.
God bless all the gallant young men -- and the ladies and old sporting fellows who cheered them -- for 12 hours of sedentary bliss (well, not the ladies; they were jumping and shaking pom-poms)
He maketh his sun to rise…
The love handles expanded, but so did a love for a game meant for the teenager and the man child. The pro game consumes the sporting public, but the student-athletes inspire awe. After a tough day of calculus, pre-med and Shakespeare, they take to the gridiron to win one for ….
Forgive us, but when a Nazarene invests a game -- a game, mind you -- with biblical significance emblazoned under eyes that are misting over, we have to chuckle (a character flaw of ours that has others chuckling at us).
“These things I have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33). Oh yeah?
Perhaps Tim Tebow, the formidable Florida quarterback, should have had Matthew 5:45 on his coal black strips: “For He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and the unjust.”
The just being the proud Nebraska squad with a coach in a collarless sweatshirt who would have been forgiven if he ranted at the blatant rigging of the Bowl Championship Series. Time had run out on the evil empire from Austin as the wide-eyed McCoy inexplicably rolled right and threw the ball out of bounds. Any other game and the refs are jogging off the field, letting the underdogs celebrate.
But no! From out of nowhere! An extra second is allowed for a BCS scenario that was pre-ordained. OK, call us conspiracy theorists, but, hey, any other game?
Wait, there’s more.
Fresno State, attempting a game-ending two-point conversion to defeat the Fighting Illini, appeared foiled by a brilliant deflection of a pass at the goal line, but a large man captured the flying pigskin in a gut that we are approaching and trundled into the end zone for the winning points as time waned. So he’s got that going for him, which is more than we can say, having slept through the calculus final.
And then there was the holder for Pitt’s extra point. He couldn’t get the ball down and twirl the laces, giving Cincinnati a chance to come back and win a pick’em game.
God bless all the gallant young men -- and the ladies and old sporting fellows who cheered them -- for 12 hours of sedentary bliss (well, not the ladies; they were jumping and shaking pom-poms)
He maketh his sun to rise…
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Whose Woods These Are, I Think I Know
It turns out that Eldrick Woods is just like you or me. OK, he has a little more do-re-mi, no love handles and is able to escape from impossible lies to make par with a panache that perplexes we triple bogey fellows. But stuff happens -- even to the world’s best golfer. The best a man can get? We’re clean-shaven, too, but fall far short of expectations. We missed a patch of whiskers on one jowl the other day and felt the sting of imperfection.
Mr. Woods, after all, is just a man. As much as we wish not to revel in celebrity gossip, it is impossible not to look away from the billionaire with a flaw, though his swing and putting stoke are, dare we repeat, the best a man can get.
Only Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jack Kennedy remain in our pantheon of stainless heroes. Well, Jackson, a college professor, superstitiously sucked lemons while leading his corps, Lee ordered the calamitous charge against Cemetery Ridge, and JFK had a dalliance with the gal who crooned “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
Charles Barkley and John Daly can laugh at themselves. Mr. Woods, apparently, can only kiss his wife, children and dogs in photo-ops. Not that Mr. Woods is required to do so, but Messrs. Barkley and Daly lead this sporting life and accept it for what it is.
Which leads us to the conclusion that we are all sinners and have tales that are easily punctured. In one way or another, we all have had someone angry at us for our sins chasing us with a metaphorical seven-iron.
Let’s hope we get off with a $164 fine and enough left over for the greens fee at a muni track, which we will attempt to conquer in a few hours.
Mr. Woods, after all, is just a man. As much as we wish not to revel in celebrity gossip, it is impossible not to look away from the billionaire with a flaw, though his swing and putting stoke are, dare we repeat, the best a man can get.
Only Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jack Kennedy remain in our pantheon of stainless heroes. Well, Jackson, a college professor, superstitiously sucked lemons while leading his corps, Lee ordered the calamitous charge against Cemetery Ridge, and JFK had a dalliance with the gal who crooned “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
Charles Barkley and John Daly can laugh at themselves. Mr. Woods, apparently, can only kiss his wife, children and dogs in photo-ops. Not that Mr. Woods is required to do so, but Messrs. Barkley and Daly lead this sporting life and accept it for what it is.
Which leads us to the conclusion that we are all sinners and have tales that are easily punctured. In one way or another, we all have had someone angry at us for our sins chasing us with a metaphorical seven-iron.
Let’s hope we get off with a $164 fine and enough left over for the greens fee at a muni track, which we will attempt to conquer in a few hours.
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