We search our hearts in this season of joy and light and find that, as usual, we come up lacking, but what the heck. Bowl season is upon us and we must persevere. Our Irish, Anglo-Saxon and Cherokee (‘Skins’ as our Osage friend called ‘em) forefathers would demand no less, though Gaelic football, rugby and lacrosse are mysteries to us.
Not so the American variety of four downs, seven men on the line of scrimmage, one man in motion and drawing plays in the dirt. We are infallible, except for taking the McHale’s Navy team against the Montezumas of San Diego St. in the Poinsettia Bowl. By the way, what is this trend of enunciating the last “i” in this Christmas flower? Have we been locked up too long in our hillbilly trailer park?
We digress. A beloved sibling used to give us his bowl picks each year, carefully copied by hand and delivered personally to his inner circle. We will usurp him this year because 35 games are too much for one man to bear. As we recall, the young man incorrectly predicted a Roger Staubach-led Navy team win over Texas in the 1964 Cotton Bowl game. But we could be wrong. We often are.
Not so in the 21st century. Our predictions for entertainment purposes only:
Wisconsin over TCU in the Rose Bowl
Arkansas over Ohio State in the Sugar Bowl
Stanford over Virginia Tech in the Orange Bowl
Texas A&M over LSU in the Cotton Bowl
Our beloved Sooners over Connecticut in the Fiesta Bowl
Auburn over Oregon in the BCS championship
We will not pick the Chick-fil-A or GoDaddy.com bowls, though we will be watching them for entertainment purposes only.
On Christmas Eve, we must entertain ourselves while counting our blessings on this holiest of nights:
Beautiful children and beautiful women.
Gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Golfing buddies.
Peace on Earth, good will toward men.
Same old Jets.
Christmas ties you can only wear one day a year.
Who has it better than us?
Friday, December 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The Morning Star and Freshman English
When we awoke the other morning, we at first thought it was a police helicopter heading toward a sleepy city that never sleeps. But it kept rising on the horizon above the dowdy apartment buildings and tire repair shops on the east side of the street without coming nearer to our abode on the west. Then it vanished as that lucky old sun -- which has nothing to do but roam around heaven all day -- gave light to our planet.
In all our to’ing and fro’ing, we lit a cigarette and stopped to ponder if the universe were expanding or contracting. Will Venus (not being astronomers, we assumed it was Venus), the morning star mistaken for a man-made airborne vehicle, shine for us in perpetuity, or will it end in a whimper, not a bang? As goes Venus, so goes Earth. Eventually, in a gazillion years both will become frozen ice balls when the fires of our hydrogen-fueled Apollo die. This is the cosmologist’s version of doomed! doomed, I say!
But in the short term, we must focus on more important things. We begin our agonizing decline. China and the old Europe, as an ex-secretary of defense called it, excoriate Bernanke and the central bank of the U.S.A. for “quantitative easing,” i.e., buying long-term government debt to boost the money supply. It’s the only card left to play. It’s like seeing a return of a perfect serve and rushing to send a lob over your opponent’s menacing grin at the net. You’ve got to try, man.
And try we shall. The inevitable end of life doesn’t mean we should neglect this sporting life in which we find ourselves today.
Our beloved Temple Owls failed us last week, but we expect them to rebound against the Miami (Ohio) Redhawks tonight -- two carnivores of the air who keep the rodent population down.
By the way, there’s a Miami, Oklahoma, too, home of Heisman Trophy winner Steve Owens, he of the crimson and cream who was big man on campus in our freshman year long ago when we sauntered to our English class and got an F on our first essay. We’ve never been the same since.
In all our to’ing and fro’ing, we lit a cigarette and stopped to ponder if the universe were expanding or contracting. Will Venus (not being astronomers, we assumed it was Venus), the morning star mistaken for a man-made airborne vehicle, shine for us in perpetuity, or will it end in a whimper, not a bang? As goes Venus, so goes Earth. Eventually, in a gazillion years both will become frozen ice balls when the fires of our hydrogen-fueled Apollo die. This is the cosmologist’s version of doomed! doomed, I say!
But in the short term, we must focus on more important things. We begin our agonizing decline. China and the old Europe, as an ex-secretary of defense called it, excoriate Bernanke and the central bank of the U.S.A. for “quantitative easing,” i.e., buying long-term government debt to boost the money supply. It’s the only card left to play. It’s like seeing a return of a perfect serve and rushing to send a lob over your opponent’s menacing grin at the net. You’ve got to try, man.
And try we shall. The inevitable end of life doesn’t mean we should neglect this sporting life in which we find ourselves today.
Our beloved Temple Owls failed us last week, but we expect them to rebound against the Miami (Ohio) Redhawks tonight -- two carnivores of the air who keep the rodent population down.
By the way, there’s a Miami, Oklahoma, too, home of Heisman Trophy winner Steve Owens, he of the crimson and cream who was big man on campus in our freshman year long ago when we sauntered to our English class and got an F on our first essay. We’ve never been the same since.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Curtain Up
Who says there are no second acts in American life?
Barack Obama can draw inspiration from, of all people, Michael Vick, the quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles, and the New York football Giants. Having paid his debt for harming man’s best friend, Mr. Vick eviscerated the Washington foes last night in a performance that would draw ecstatic raves from the toughest critic at Variety or Hollywood Reporter.
His ruthlessness evinced against the animal kingdom in the past has now been transferred to the gridiron against his fellow man in pads. The strategists of the New York football Giants must be gnashing teeth and rubbing furrowed brows to figure a way to stop him next Sunday night. Our answer: keep him off the field. Run the game clock down. Run more than pass. Run for your life.
Mr. Vick proved himself to be Nietzsche’s ubermensch, beyond good and evil, launching deep passes with the accuracy of cruise missiles or waltzing through bewildered defenses as if at a debutante ball. The U.S.A. could have used him in Afghanistan and Iraq. And he could have danced all night.
In the meantime, like the New York football Giants, Mr. Obama must be spending nights watching game film of the Republican ascendancy and plotting his own comeback. Unless the recovering economy starts producing jobs as well as gobs of cash for the well-heeled, he could be doomed.
Or he could take a page from Donovan McNabb, the once Eagles quarterback, now with the Redskins vanquished by Mr. Vick. Mr. McNabb signed a five-year extension on his contract and picked up a fresh load of cash, despite cardiovascular issues. Talk about second acts. We who are wheezing salute you.
As for “amateur” football, as played in the farm system for the NFL known as institutions of higher learning, Ohio at Temple is a tough call tonight. But if we were a speculating sort, for entertainment purposes only, we would take Temple and give 7 ½ points. This is based on the analysis that Owls are predators but wise and Bobcats are vicious but simple.
Barack Obama can draw inspiration from, of all people, Michael Vick, the quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles, and the New York football Giants. Having paid his debt for harming man’s best friend, Mr. Vick eviscerated the Washington foes last night in a performance that would draw ecstatic raves from the toughest critic at Variety or Hollywood Reporter.
His ruthlessness evinced against the animal kingdom in the past has now been transferred to the gridiron against his fellow man in pads. The strategists of the New York football Giants must be gnashing teeth and rubbing furrowed brows to figure a way to stop him next Sunday night. Our answer: keep him off the field. Run the game clock down. Run more than pass. Run for your life.
Mr. Vick proved himself to be Nietzsche’s ubermensch, beyond good and evil, launching deep passes with the accuracy of cruise missiles or waltzing through bewildered defenses as if at a debutante ball. The U.S.A. could have used him in Afghanistan and Iraq. And he could have danced all night.
In the meantime, like the New York football Giants, Mr. Obama must be spending nights watching game film of the Republican ascendancy and plotting his own comeback. Unless the recovering economy starts producing jobs as well as gobs of cash for the well-heeled, he could be doomed.
Or he could take a page from Donovan McNabb, the once Eagles quarterback, now with the Redskins vanquished by Mr. Vick. Mr. McNabb signed a five-year extension on his contract and picked up a fresh load of cash, despite cardiovascular issues. Talk about second acts. We who are wheezing salute you.
As for “amateur” football, as played in the farm system for the NFL known as institutions of higher learning, Ohio at Temple is a tough call tonight. But if we were a speculating sort, for entertainment purposes only, we would take Temple and give 7 ½ points. This is based on the analysis that Owls are predators but wise and Bobcats are vicious but simple.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Renaissance Man
My name is Ron Washington, skipper of the Arlington, Tex., baseball club. I chose to remove starter C.J. Wilson because I peddled subprime mortgage securities and wanted to maximize the downfall and damage to the economy. Just kidding, but c’mon man.
Ron, you should join the board of governors of the Federal Reserve and bail out bankers so they can give each other bonuses to pay the salaries of pinstripers. No. I remember every detail. You wore red, white and blue, the Huns of Steinbrenner wore gray while Nolan Ryan slumped in his seat.
The firemen of the Rangers turned out to be the arson squad. They threw heat all right, bathed in gasoline that sent the empire staters to an improbable come from behind victory over the Texan freedom fighters, now caught in the headlights of inevitable golf dates a week from now. Remember the Alamo, fellows.
Sometimes when we try to be renaissance men, we eat our seed corn and then wonder where our next meal is going to come from. “Life is much more successfully looked at through a single window, after all,” Nick Carraway says in “The Great Gatsby.” That it is, old sport, as Gatsby himself might have said.
Looking out our window, a single window for entertainment purposes only, we see Wisconsin over Ohio State; Nebraska over Texas; Nevada vs. Hawaii over 75. Meanwhile, Boise State’s young men will not remain No. 1 in the BCS standings. They just don’t play enough tough teams down the road.
If these prognostications are less than Nostrodamus-like, you can yank our scholarship.
Ron, you should join the board of governors of the Federal Reserve and bail out bankers so they can give each other bonuses to pay the salaries of pinstripers. No. I remember every detail. You wore red, white and blue, the Huns of Steinbrenner wore gray while Nolan Ryan slumped in his seat.
The firemen of the Rangers turned out to be the arson squad. They threw heat all right, bathed in gasoline that sent the empire staters to an improbable come from behind victory over the Texan freedom fighters, now caught in the headlights of inevitable golf dates a week from now. Remember the Alamo, fellows.
Sometimes when we try to be renaissance men, we eat our seed corn and then wonder where our next meal is going to come from. “Life is much more successfully looked at through a single window, after all,” Nick Carraway says in “The Great Gatsby.” That it is, old sport, as Gatsby himself might have said.
Looking out our window, a single window for entertainment purposes only, we see Wisconsin over Ohio State; Nebraska over Texas; Nevada vs. Hawaii over 75. Meanwhile, Boise State’s young men will not remain No. 1 in the BCS standings. They just don’t play enough tough teams down the road.
If these prognostications are less than Nostrodamus-like, you can yank our scholarship.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Toy Department
The game played between the lines is often ruled by the one between the ears.
Maybe Brooks Conrad, the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman who committed three errors night before last -- the final one a fatal scoot through the pet-door of two legs -- summoned his inner Bill Buckner, allowing the Giants by the bay to score the winning run. Keep the glove on the ground and the butt low, son, then let it hit you in the chest if it bounces up.
We are all doomed in the end, but it’s different being doomed in this sporting life. Conrad, who could have written “Lord Jim,” (which another Conrad did) had to sit and watch the Turner tomahawks fall limp yesterday. His only choice is to vanish to a fishing village in Mexico, if not as a vagabond in the Pacific or a ranch hand on Buckner’s Montana spread. Or to soldier on, and say “Oh well.”
We know how he feels. In our dotage, mistakes loom large. We are continuously amazed by the ability of our brethren homo sapiens to shake it off and move on. See Bill Clinton and Eliot Spitzer, the blue dress and black socks. But those are of a different ilk than Mr. Conrad’s, whose only sin was to fail in something as unimportant as a sporting event – the toy department as we used to call it in the newspaper trade.
When the stage is small, one can slink off to his or her lonely room, fire up a Marlboro and browse through Golf Digest while Turner (he of the tomahawks) Classic Movies plays “The Public Enemy” late at night. One can while away the sleepless hours improving his or her James Cagney or Joan Blondell impersonation.
Falling asleep with the television screen flickering, we dream of a wayback machine in which Mr. Peabody and Sherman intervene in history and set things aright, saving us from ignominy and regrets.
Hold your head high, Mr. Conrad. You’re not going to miss any meals, though you might need to find another profession. Failure on the field of athletic endeavor is the key to victory – for the other side. Those of us on the smaller stage of softball in the park, the municipal tennis court and the local golf course know this and keep our day jobs. Keep ‘em if you got‘em.
The October sun appears ready to grace us with another day in shorts and golf shirts. Got to work on keeping the glove on the ground and the rear end down. Practicing putting is strictly forbidden.
Maybe Brooks Conrad, the Atlanta Braves’ second baseman who committed three errors night before last -- the final one a fatal scoot through the pet-door of two legs -- summoned his inner Bill Buckner, allowing the Giants by the bay to score the winning run. Keep the glove on the ground and the butt low, son, then let it hit you in the chest if it bounces up.
We are all doomed in the end, but it’s different being doomed in this sporting life. Conrad, who could have written “Lord Jim,” (which another Conrad did) had to sit and watch the Turner tomahawks fall limp yesterday. His only choice is to vanish to a fishing village in Mexico, if not as a vagabond in the Pacific or a ranch hand on Buckner’s Montana spread. Or to soldier on, and say “Oh well.”
We know how he feels. In our dotage, mistakes loom large. We are continuously amazed by the ability of our brethren homo sapiens to shake it off and move on. See Bill Clinton and Eliot Spitzer, the blue dress and black socks. But those are of a different ilk than Mr. Conrad’s, whose only sin was to fail in something as unimportant as a sporting event – the toy department as we used to call it in the newspaper trade.
When the stage is small, one can slink off to his or her lonely room, fire up a Marlboro and browse through Golf Digest while Turner (he of the tomahawks) Classic Movies plays “The Public Enemy” late at night. One can while away the sleepless hours improving his or her James Cagney or Joan Blondell impersonation.
Falling asleep with the television screen flickering, we dream of a wayback machine in which Mr. Peabody and Sherman intervene in history and set things aright, saving us from ignominy and regrets.
Hold your head high, Mr. Conrad. You’re not going to miss any meals, though you might need to find another profession. Failure on the field of athletic endeavor is the key to victory – for the other side. Those of us on the smaller stage of softball in the park, the municipal tennis court and the local golf course know this and keep our day jobs. Keep ‘em if you got‘em.
The October sun appears ready to grace us with another day in shorts and golf shirts. Got to work on keeping the glove on the ground and the rear end down. Practicing putting is strictly forbidden.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
How to Succeed in Entertainment without really Trying
Mr. Halladay of the Philadelphia ball club is a failure. He allowed a single runner to reach with a base on balls (BB on your score card). Surely, he had a fitful night’s sleep, realizing he had faced 28 batsmen, retiring a mere 27. Oh, the torment!
Darting splitters, cutters, sliders, curve balls were to no avail against the redoubtable Jay Bruce of the Red Legs, who shrewdly took first base from the flawed moundsman, who should seek help from PA (Perfectos Anonymous). Why, a vision of grandiosity is a sign of serious mental illness and should be addressed immediately by a qualified professional. Talk him down from the ledge, Doc.
Mr. Lee of the Dallas club stifled the Floridians, and the Pinstripers managed to squeeze the crème-filled center out of the Twinkies.
In other words, we went 0 for 3 in our pursuit of entertainment in this sporting life. However, another Florida bunch, the rogue Knights of Orlando, cut a swath through the fizzling Blazers of Birmingham, giving us entertainment in the scholar-athlete realm.
Take Pavano and the Twin Cities (the head of the Mississippi River is nearby, we believe) over Pettite and the bridge-bound Bronx (no thonx). Also, Lincecum of the city by the bay against Lowe of Scarlet O’Hara’s territory. Also, Wilson of the Lone Star state over Shields of the scary underwater critters of another bay.
Meanwhile, the bond market is sending a message. Yields keep falling. Which means economic growth is fragile and stocks have little upside from here. Use the mattress and take the soon-to-be Big 10 Nebraska Cornhuskers minus 11 over Kansas State, for entertainment purposes only.
Darting splitters, cutters, sliders, curve balls were to no avail against the redoubtable Jay Bruce of the Red Legs, who shrewdly took first base from the flawed moundsman, who should seek help from PA (Perfectos Anonymous). Why, a vision of grandiosity is a sign of serious mental illness and should be addressed immediately by a qualified professional. Talk him down from the ledge, Doc.
Mr. Lee of the Dallas club stifled the Floridians, and the Pinstripers managed to squeeze the crème-filled center out of the Twinkies.
In other words, we went 0 for 3 in our pursuit of entertainment in this sporting life. However, another Florida bunch, the rogue Knights of Orlando, cut a swath through the fizzling Blazers of Birmingham, giving us entertainment in the scholar-athlete realm.
Take Pavano and the Twin Cities (the head of the Mississippi River is nearby, we believe) over Pettite and the bridge-bound Bronx (no thonx). Also, Lincecum of the city by the bay against Lowe of Scarlet O’Hara’s territory. Also, Wilson of the Lone Star state over Shields of the scary underwater critters of another bay.
Meanwhile, the bond market is sending a message. Yields keep falling. Which means economic growth is fragile and stocks have little upside from here. Use the mattress and take the soon-to-be Big 10 Nebraska Cornhuskers minus 11 over Kansas State, for entertainment purposes only.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
If We Had to Choose Just One Day
You can’t tell people how to feel. But you can tell them OU 28-Texas 20 and God is on his throne. You can tell them order has returned to the universe. You can tell them good conquers evil. You can tell them the Athens of the plains has vanquished Sparta. You can tell them Boomer Sooner and sing the OU Chant!
O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A
Our chant rolls on and on.
Thousands strong join heart and song
In Alma Mater’s praise
Of campus beautiful by day and night
Of colors proudly gleaming red and white
‘Neath a western sky, OU’s chant will never die
Live on University.
OK (pun intended), enough of the crimson and cream, but if we had to choose just one day to last our whole life through, it would surely be that Saturday, the day that we met the enemy and the enemy was ours. Or is the enemy us, as Walt Kelly’s Pogo opined in the funny pages, lo those many years ago?
We recently turned 25 years old and thought that turning 60 in one year was a “Cruel Twist of Fate,” as we used to put in the eyebrow of a headline. However, we also used to put in “Man Cheats Fate.” We’ll take the latter over “Headless Man Found in ... Bar.” We’ll leave it to your imagination.
This sporting life is for entertainment purposes only, but, since youth springs eternal, look for Texas (Rangers, not emasculated steers) to best Cincinnati in the World Series. Get in now while the gettin’s good (for entertainment purposes only).
Sell the Yankees tonight. We have a sibling who is a Twins fan and reminds us that the Twinkies have flourished without Justin Morneau. Pinstriper C.C. Sabbathia doesn’t wear his cap correctly and his derriere is wider than the pitching rubber. No brainer.
OU’s chant will never die. Take ‘em every week, for entertainment purposes only.
O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A
Our chant rolls on and on.
Thousands strong join heart and song
In Alma Mater’s praise
Of campus beautiful by day and night
Of colors proudly gleaming red and white
‘Neath a western sky, OU’s chant will never die
Live on University.
OK (pun intended), enough of the crimson and cream, but if we had to choose just one day to last our whole life through, it would surely be that Saturday, the day that we met the enemy and the enemy was ours. Or is the enemy us, as Walt Kelly’s Pogo opined in the funny pages, lo those many years ago?
We recently turned 25 years old and thought that turning 60 in one year was a “Cruel Twist of Fate,” as we used to put in the eyebrow of a headline. However, we also used to put in “Man Cheats Fate.” We’ll take the latter over “Headless Man Found in ... Bar.” We’ll leave it to your imagination.
This sporting life is for entertainment purposes only, but, since youth springs eternal, look for Texas (Rangers, not emasculated steers) to best Cincinnati in the World Series. Get in now while the gettin’s good (for entertainment purposes only).
Sell the Yankees tonight. We have a sibling who is a Twins fan and reminds us that the Twinkies have flourished without Justin Morneau. Pinstriper C.C. Sabbathia doesn’t wear his cap correctly and his derriere is wider than the pitching rubber. No brainer.
OU’s chant will never die. Take ‘em every week, for entertainment purposes only.
Friday, September 24, 2010
A Whale of a Tale
Call me Ishmael, but first let me wipe this whale blubber off my face. Little bit of egg on there as well.
“But tell us, Mr. Know It All, how did this marine mammalian insulation come to smear your impressive profile? You usually don’t go in for gel. And you take your eggs scrambled with mustard.”
Well, it happened like this. I was reading War and Peace and a college football game appeared on the flat screen on the forecastle. The ‘Canes of South Beach were taking on the large black cats of Allegheny County. My shipmates and I, harpoons in hand and espying a particularly juicy target, sprang like, well , panthers on a sure kill.
What unfolded was sheer horror. The great green and orange beast seemed under our control. We intercepted his leaps with barbs that seemed to take the starch out of him, but we were shortly drawn into a great squall that upended us into the drink and allowed the son of a gun to break free.
The curses were loud as we shook the brine off our bell bottoms and scrambled back on board to update the Excel spreadsheet. We were doomed, doomed, I say!
Yet hope springs eternal. We stumbled back to port, taking a more docile animal on the way to feed the lamps of New England and thus blubber all over me, which gave a handsome sheen to our pate. We set our eyes on the next voyage, however. This one will be overland to the Lone Star state. Will the TCU lizards of Fort Worth escape the SMU wild horse hooves of Dallas by more than 17? We are torn.
Only time will tell, as the comely TV correspondents tell us. Will call Liz Cho, Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric for advice. Got ‘em on my speed dial.
Meanwhile, Ichiro Suzuki must reveal his secrets for the betterment of mankind and aspiring whalers everywhere.
“But tell us, Mr. Know It All, how did this marine mammalian insulation come to smear your impressive profile? You usually don’t go in for gel. And you take your eggs scrambled with mustard.”
Well, it happened like this. I was reading War and Peace and a college football game appeared on the flat screen on the forecastle. The ‘Canes of South Beach were taking on the large black cats of Allegheny County. My shipmates and I, harpoons in hand and espying a particularly juicy target, sprang like, well , panthers on a sure kill.
What unfolded was sheer horror. The great green and orange beast seemed under our control. We intercepted his leaps with barbs that seemed to take the starch out of him, but we were shortly drawn into a great squall that upended us into the drink and allowed the son of a gun to break free.
The curses were loud as we shook the brine off our bell bottoms and scrambled back on board to update the Excel spreadsheet. We were doomed, doomed, I say!
Yet hope springs eternal. We stumbled back to port, taking a more docile animal on the way to feed the lamps of New England and thus blubber all over me, which gave a handsome sheen to our pate. We set our eyes on the next voyage, however. This one will be overland to the Lone Star state. Will the TCU lizards of Fort Worth escape the SMU wild horse hooves of Dallas by more than 17? We are torn.
Only time will tell, as the comely TV correspondents tell us. Will call Liz Cho, Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric for advice. Got ‘em on my speed dial.
Meanwhile, Ichiro Suzuki must reveal his secrets for the betterment of mankind and aspiring whalers everywhere.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Advice from a Know-it-All
Top picks this week:
Thank heaven for little girls. We have one who makes the sun rise.
Arkansas’ wild pigs (+7) will cover against Alabama’s lumbering elephants.
You know what? Slap us if we say “you know what?” again.
Re-read “The Great Gatsby.” We guarantee you’ll find something new.
Ring Lardner’s “Alibi Ike.”
DO NOT practice putting. You’ll use up all the good ones.
Respect the animal kingdom when choosing, for entertainment purposes only, football teams. We find that Homo sapiens mascots generally prevail over lower mammals.
Homo sapiens vs. Homo sapiens is tougher. See Michigan State Spartans vs. Notre Dame Fighting Irish last week. The artful Aegean pulled a Mediterranean fast one on the discombobulated domer of Our Lady du Lac.
September in New York. Who has it better than us? You can still wear shorts and perspiration is but a memory.
Girardi to Cubs. Randolph to Mets. Torre to Cardinals. OK, it’s a stretch, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Heard it on the radio.
Coolest Beatles’ song: “P.S. I Love You.” No, wait, it’s “I’m a Loser.” Hold on, it’s “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl.” What about, “And Your Bird Can Sing”?
Best new band: “New Grass Country Club.” Join the club!
Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love (Got a soft spot for Robert Palmer and his lipsticked gals).
Thank heaven for little girls. We have one who makes the sun rise.
Arkansas’ wild pigs (+7) will cover against Alabama’s lumbering elephants.
You know what? Slap us if we say “you know what?” again.
Re-read “The Great Gatsby.” We guarantee you’ll find something new.
Ring Lardner’s “Alibi Ike.”
DO NOT practice putting. You’ll use up all the good ones.
Respect the animal kingdom when choosing, for entertainment purposes only, football teams. We find that Homo sapiens mascots generally prevail over lower mammals.
Homo sapiens vs. Homo sapiens is tougher. See Michigan State Spartans vs. Notre Dame Fighting Irish last week. The artful Aegean pulled a Mediterranean fast one on the discombobulated domer of Our Lady du Lac.
September in New York. Who has it better than us? You can still wear shorts and perspiration is but a memory.
Girardi to Cubs. Randolph to Mets. Torre to Cardinals. OK, it’s a stretch, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Heard it on the radio.
Coolest Beatles’ song: “P.S. I Love You.” No, wait, it’s “I’m a Loser.” Hold on, it’s “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl.” What about, “And Your Bird Can Sing”?
Best new band: “New Grass Country Club.” Join the club!
Might as well face it, you’re addicted to love (Got a soft spot for Robert Palmer and his lipsticked gals).
Monday, September 13, 2010
Spectrum Analysis
I don’t wish that I had Jesse’s girl. I wish I had the Philadelphia Eagles’ Michael Vick’s legs. The son of a gun can still gallop like a Labrador, with memories of dangling pit bulls dancing in his head. Got to hand it to him. He’ll start next week. Andy Reid knew what he was doing when he hired the guy.
And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.
Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?
Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.
Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.
In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.
Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.
And forget about the blind side, Alex Barron, the right tackle for America’s team, all but strangles a defender and ends the game as time expires, nullifying a seemingly winning touchdown pass and enriching those of us who took the Redskins for entertainment purposes only.
Which brings us to a new thesis – the color kingdom. Taking the color of passion – red – seems to work. You’ve given roses to your significant other to express your undying love. The football REDskins of the NFL and the REDbirds of the senior circuit of the MLB worked in tandem last night, for entertainment purposes only. Why don’t they walk Pujols whenever he shows up in the batter’s box?
Greens and blues are out. From now on, we are taking Boston and St. Louis of the MLB, San Francisco, Arizona, and Kansas City of the NFL , OU, Nebraska, Stanford of the scholar athlete football league (can’t take Ohio State – scarlet isn’t red). Jets and Giants are cast into the darkness, unless they make it to the Super Bowl and a decision must be made.
Am I abandoning the animal kingdom? But no! From out of nowhere comes the Canadian Football league, which features 12 men, numerous moving parts and ways to score. Keep an eye on these hosers.
In other words, life is random and we must have a code to live by and not be deterred by the girl who throws us over or the putt that goes awry. After all, Dustin Johnson won the BMW Championship yesterday after losing the PGA Championship by grounding his club in a bunker that he didn’t know was a bunker.
Wear crimson and cream on Saturday and flee the stock market. Y'all are doomed except for those who accept the color kingdom.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Which Is Nice
Got a haircut the other day. The barber waved the obligatory mirror on the backside and I was shocked! shocked!, I say! to see the rear of the cranium hairless, as it has been for years. Sigh.
But it keeps us cool in the summer heat, so we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.
There is also a bald spot in the fabric of American life that needs Rogaine, or at least a toupee. It’s not the Glenn Beck rally in Washington. It’s not Obamacare. It’s not Darrelle Revis island. It’s not Navy fumbling at the goal line versus Maryland, keeping us from -- for entertainment purposes only -- cashing in. It’s not the Orioles taking the first two from the Yankees, which is also nice.
No, it’s the world we have lost. Where is Army’s lonesome end formation? Where is the split T (best onion rings and milk shakes in the world at a restaurant in Oklahoma City by the same name)? Where are the 180-pound offensive linemen? Where are the blocking rules we learned (that is, you can’t use your hands)? Where are the sports stories that review games and players and not arcane contracts?
We feel we are strangers in a strange land (apologies to Robert Heinlein). We live without iPods, still knot our ties the same way, a cool breeze through our window still seems like the breath of God wafting over our fevered flesh. Yet something has changed in our public life.
The sporting life we seek to lead is bespattered with People Magazine and movie directors, brilliant as they may be, despoiling 13-year-old girls and getting away with it. Cigarettes costing $12 a pack in the People’s Republic of New York. Poetry drowned out by hip-hop nonsense blared from an Escalade. Tea Party crybabies who don’t know their hip from their elbow. We are a surly old man, but keep our nails clipped and take our hat off indoors. Which is nice.
We are in a dark place, though Nick Swisher did us a favor by hitting the walk-off homer against Baltimore and assuring the run line win for the O’s , for entertainment purposes only. Which is also nice.
Take Mississippi State over Auburn (pick ‘em), and in the NFL New Orleans -5 over Minnesota, for entertainment purposes only, tonight. Must go with old OU -7 against Seminoles on Saturday, for entertainment purposes only.
In any event, entertained we shall be.
But it keeps us cool in the summer heat, so we’ve got that going for us, which is nice.
There is also a bald spot in the fabric of American life that needs Rogaine, or at least a toupee. It’s not the Glenn Beck rally in Washington. It’s not Obamacare. It’s not Darrelle Revis island. It’s not Navy fumbling at the goal line versus Maryland, keeping us from -- for entertainment purposes only -- cashing in. It’s not the Orioles taking the first two from the Yankees, which is also nice.
No, it’s the world we have lost. Where is Army’s lonesome end formation? Where is the split T (best onion rings and milk shakes in the world at a restaurant in Oklahoma City by the same name)? Where are the 180-pound offensive linemen? Where are the blocking rules we learned (that is, you can’t use your hands)? Where are the sports stories that review games and players and not arcane contracts?
We feel we are strangers in a strange land (apologies to Robert Heinlein). We live without iPods, still knot our ties the same way, a cool breeze through our window still seems like the breath of God wafting over our fevered flesh. Yet something has changed in our public life.
The sporting life we seek to lead is bespattered with People Magazine and movie directors, brilliant as they may be, despoiling 13-year-old girls and getting away with it. Cigarettes costing $12 a pack in the People’s Republic of New York. Poetry drowned out by hip-hop nonsense blared from an Escalade. Tea Party crybabies who don’t know their hip from their elbow. We are a surly old man, but keep our nails clipped and take our hat off indoors. Which is nice.
We are in a dark place, though Nick Swisher did us a favor by hitting the walk-off homer against Baltimore and assuring the run line win for the O’s , for entertainment purposes only. Which is also nice.
Take Mississippi State over Auburn (pick ‘em), and in the NFL New Orleans -5 over Minnesota, for entertainment purposes only, tonight. Must go with old OU -7 against Seminoles on Saturday, for entertainment purposes only.
In any event, entertained we shall be.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Lingering in Summer
Soichiro Amaya of the Hiroshima Carp recently climbed a wall and stood on it to snag a would-be home-run ball. Spiderman bowed to the reporters in the after-game interview. We used to catch carp in the Chikaskia River near Blackwell, Kay County, Oklahoma, with our grandfather and threw them back. The rascals were too bony to filet and fry up, Grandpa said.
It seems the recovery from the Great Recession and the Middle East wars are rivers full of carp and few edible crappie. As the stimulus runs out of steam, so does the economic engine chugging along the track of history. We are usually an optimistic sort. The girls are still in their summer dresses. Six-foot putts still occasionally rattle into the cup. Surly old men still order the king of beers. Young men still return to school seeking PhDs in medieval literature. Look out Chaucer, you’re about to be dissected again.
But Americans are waking up to the fact that the age of dominance is fading. We depend on the kindness of strangers – for instance, the Chinese who bought our bonds to fund our feckless adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Given the dismal economic data of late – home sales, employment, durable goods orders, not to mention the hottest summer on record in New York (Con Ed probably made a killing, but to be fair avoided blackouts) – the tendency to be optimistic is under attack. Yet we must. Why does Rice play Texas as JFK said in Houston? Hey, the Owls covered the spread.
For entertainment purposes only, we picked no winners at Saratoga this weekend. Quality Ride proved he is a fine animal by winning the Woodward after missing the Derby. Such fragile beasts, ankles as skinny as ours, supporting chests and haunches that bespeak power and desire. They are said to be dumber than pigs, but they inspire awe, much as human beings do, though we are also probably dumber than pigs.
After a night of restless sleep and a dreadful round of foozled drives on the golf course in the state park at Saratoga, where a friend of ours learned we saw the same Crosby, Stills Nash and Young concert on a rainy night, we came romping home to old New York.
All is not lost. We picture ourselves atop that Japanese baseball wall with Mr. Amaya, snaring victory from the jaws of defeat rather than the other way around.
Oh yes, heard the cicadas still chirping. Summer lingers.
It seems the recovery from the Great Recession and the Middle East wars are rivers full of carp and few edible crappie. As the stimulus runs out of steam, so does the economic engine chugging along the track of history. We are usually an optimistic sort. The girls are still in their summer dresses. Six-foot putts still occasionally rattle into the cup. Surly old men still order the king of beers. Young men still return to school seeking PhDs in medieval literature. Look out Chaucer, you’re about to be dissected again.
But Americans are waking up to the fact that the age of dominance is fading. We depend on the kindness of strangers – for instance, the Chinese who bought our bonds to fund our feckless adventures in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Given the dismal economic data of late – home sales, employment, durable goods orders, not to mention the hottest summer on record in New York (Con Ed probably made a killing, but to be fair avoided blackouts) – the tendency to be optimistic is under attack. Yet we must. Why does Rice play Texas as JFK said in Houston? Hey, the Owls covered the spread.
For entertainment purposes only, we picked no winners at Saratoga this weekend. Quality Ride proved he is a fine animal by winning the Woodward after missing the Derby. Such fragile beasts, ankles as skinny as ours, supporting chests and haunches that bespeak power and desire. They are said to be dumber than pigs, but they inspire awe, much as human beings do, though we are also probably dumber than pigs.
After a night of restless sleep and a dreadful round of foozled drives on the golf course in the state park at Saratoga, where a friend of ours learned we saw the same Crosby, Stills Nash and Young concert on a rainy night, we came romping home to old New York.
All is not lost. We picture ourselves atop that Japanese baseball wall with Mr. Amaya, snaring victory from the jaws of defeat rather than the other way around.
Oh yes, heard the cicadas still chirping. Summer lingers.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Ode to Summer And Fall
I hear the cicadas humming their love song, their lives soon to end. As boys in Texas, my brothers and I used to catch them, tie a string around them and let them fly at the end of the tether as we walked around the neighborhood. It marked the waning days of summer, long after Little League season ended.
I see my blonde sister in her teenhood, her hair tinged green from chlorine after hours in the pool.
I see Bob Gibson hitting an inside-the-park home run and Vada Pinson of the Reds, or were they the Red Legs back then?, knocking himself out against the wall at Busch Stadium 1 in 1965. At least that’s what I remember. Have to find the scorecard some place.
I feel the tug of fall as my brow cools and my children head back to school, full of expectations of glory, as well they should.
I thank the Good Lord that I have potable water when it seems the world is awash in what Coleridge said: “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere and nor a drop to drink.”
I look forward to college football and the religious experience of rooting for the Laters (as a good friend of mine calls them) to beat Florida State and Texas.
Enough “I’s.” Summer is dying. Had some pumpkin bread the other day and “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as Mr. Keats pointed out, will soon be upon us.
And the Yankees, BREAK ‘EM UP.
I see my blonde sister in her teenhood, her hair tinged green from chlorine after hours in the pool.
I see Bob Gibson hitting an inside-the-park home run and Vada Pinson of the Reds, or were they the Red Legs back then?, knocking himself out against the wall at Busch Stadium 1 in 1965. At least that’s what I remember. Have to find the scorecard some place.
I feel the tug of fall as my brow cools and my children head back to school, full of expectations of glory, as well they should.
I thank the Good Lord that I have potable water when it seems the world is awash in what Coleridge said: “Water, water everywhere and all the boards did shrink; water, water everywhere and nor a drop to drink.”
I look forward to college football and the religious experience of rooting for the Laters (as a good friend of mine calls them) to beat Florida State and Texas.
Enough “I’s.” Summer is dying. Had some pumpkin bread the other day and “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” as Mr. Keats pointed out, will soon be upon us.
And the Yankees, BREAK ‘EM UP.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Their Flag to April's Breeze Unfurled
The day before we entered this vale of tears Bobby Thomson fired the shot heard ‘round the world. Not the one at Concord that Emerson immortalized:
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard 'round the world."
No, it was the one Mr. Thomson of the New York Giants cracked over the left field fence at Coogan’s Bluff to defeat the Brooklyn Dodgers in a playoff game for the senior circuit pennant. We have felt a strange connection ever since we became cognizant in early boyhood of our place in baseball history, which leads us to coin a phrase – a day late and a dollar short.
We’ve run our race, as Paul said in his second letter to Timothy. Yet we take solace in Brett Favre (how do you pronounce his name?) writing another chapter. Or Eli Manning kneeling like Y.A. Tittle, bloodied warrior.
Mr. Thomson passed away the other day, and so did a piece of our life. Ralph Branca, who threw the fateful pitch, is still with us, but is surely to join his friend in glory soon. Days defy us. Years eat us up. Decades doom us. We only wish to tell our sons and daughters that once there were Giants, like Mr. Thomson, the embattled farmers at Concord and Mr. Tittle kneeling in the end zone with blood streaming down his bald noggin.
Apologies to Emerson and the young men who serve and die.
“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled;
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard 'round the world."
No, it was the one Mr. Thomson of the New York Giants cracked over the left field fence at Coogan’s Bluff to defeat the Brooklyn Dodgers in a playoff game for the senior circuit pennant. We have felt a strange connection ever since we became cognizant in early boyhood of our place in baseball history, which leads us to coin a phrase – a day late and a dollar short.
We’ve run our race, as Paul said in his second letter to Timothy. Yet we take solace in Brett Favre (how do you pronounce his name?) writing another chapter. Or Eli Manning kneeling like Y.A. Tittle, bloodied warrior.
Mr. Thomson passed away the other day, and so did a piece of our life. Ralph Branca, who threw the fateful pitch, is still with us, but is surely to join his friend in glory soon. Days defy us. Years eat us up. Decades doom us. We only wish to tell our sons and daughters that once there were Giants, like Mr. Thomson, the embattled farmers at Concord and Mr. Tittle kneeling in the end zone with blood streaming down his bald noggin.
Apologies to Emerson and the young men who serve and die.
Monday, August 16, 2010
C'mon Man
Why do ladies and gentlemen bother with silly games? Why does Rice play Texas (as it used to in the old SWC)? Why does the sun go on shining (as Skeeter Davis sang)? Ask me why and Tell me why (as The Beatles sang)? Because, as Wordsworth wrote, “The world is too much with us.”
Is there any sillier game than golf?
A club with a blade rested in a bit of dirt thought to be a random piece of scalped carpet and Dustin Johnson was consigned to the dustbin instead of a chance to raise high the Wannamaker trophy as PGA champion.
The son of a gun was corralled by some sunburned guy and told that he broke some rule by grounding his club in a hazard that had no rake and had been trampled by the crowd outside the ropes. C’mon, man. If this had happened on the first day to some unknown you wouldn’t have heard a peep.
Oh well, life is not fair and golf is what it is. We just play for fun and have no illusions about our ability. But this seems particularly unfair, given the prestige, not to mention the do-re-mi at stake. As we’ve pointed out before, Our Father sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust.
Meanwhile, take the over in every Canadian Football League game (for entertainment purposes only).
Is there any sillier game than golf?
A club with a blade rested in a bit of dirt thought to be a random piece of scalped carpet and Dustin Johnson was consigned to the dustbin instead of a chance to raise high the Wannamaker trophy as PGA champion.
The son of a gun was corralled by some sunburned guy and told that he broke some rule by grounding his club in a hazard that had no rake and had been trampled by the crowd outside the ropes. C’mon, man. If this had happened on the first day to some unknown you wouldn’t have heard a peep.
Oh well, life is not fair and golf is what it is. We just play for fun and have no illusions about our ability. But this seems particularly unfair, given the prestige, not to mention the do-re-mi at stake. As we’ve pointed out before, Our Father sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust.
Meanwhile, take the over in every Canadian Football League game (for entertainment purposes only).
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Dead
Ever since the world began, God decreed that old men must die even if he were Methuselah, who managed to make it to 969.
One guy, crowned by some as the Voice of God, did not find a cure for cancer. His contribution to this vale of tears in 99 years was announcing the name and numbers of batsmen appearing at the plate of a stadium in the Bronx.
The other guy was an 80-year-old rich boor who never hit a curve ball and was twice banned from baseball. Scott Fitzgerald said there were no second acts in American lives. But, as a friend of ours pointed out to us, this observation is false. He became in death the beloved Boss. The rich are different from you and me.
Now, we’re no saints. Some, hopefully, will shed tears and others will harrumph at our demise and perhaps some will come to our service to see us planted in the ground awaiting the second coming and the roses on home plate.
But let’s get serious. We all are destined to go where the Voice of God and the Boss are assigned to. We only have 750,000 years in purgatory before we meet them.
And our beloved Alouettes failed to cover the spread (for entertainment purposes only), costing us much entertainment. Stick with them while we’re still here and out of purgatory.
One guy, crowned by some as the Voice of God, did not find a cure for cancer. His contribution to this vale of tears in 99 years was announcing the name and numbers of batsmen appearing at the plate of a stadium in the Bronx.
The other guy was an 80-year-old rich boor who never hit a curve ball and was twice banned from baseball. Scott Fitzgerald said there were no second acts in American lives. But, as a friend of ours pointed out to us, this observation is false. He became in death the beloved Boss. The rich are different from you and me.
Now, we’re no saints. Some, hopefully, will shed tears and others will harrumph at our demise and perhaps some will come to our service to see us planted in the ground awaiting the second coming and the roses on home plate.
But let’s get serious. We all are destined to go where the Voice of God and the Boss are assigned to. We only have 750,000 years in purgatory before we meet them.
And our beloved Alouettes failed to cover the spread (for entertainment purposes only), costing us much entertainment. Stick with them while we’re still here and out of purgatory.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Carry a Big Stick
We all must part or join at some point, through the vicissitudes of time or the mistakes that estrange us from one another. King James leaves Cleveland for Bosh and Wade in South Beach, home of the family friendly hotels across the street from the all-night clubs. Cliff Lee goes from Seattle to pitch in Texas, where he will wilt in the southwestern sun. The Cubbies can’t score a run against the eephus-pitching Vicente Padilla of the LA Dodgers, costing us a big payday (for entertainment purposes only).
Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.
Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?
The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.
Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?
Our episodes are epic. Why! We recall them better than who’s the pitcher after the All-Star break for the Queens County Dodgers/Giants, i.e., the New York Metropolitans, a senior circuit baseball club that disturbs its fans with streaks of brilliance and abysmal failure.
Fail or triumph, we must. We are creatures who resemble our primate cousins when we bare our teeth in screams of agony or delight and see them in slow motion HD TV. Our fourth cousin, once removed, Mr. Donovan of the United States soccer team, resembled the great ape when he pounded the rebound into the goal against Algeria in the silly game known as futbol. Why doesn’t anyone pick the darn thing up and throw a forward pass, as Teddy Roosevelt commanded?
The taverns and ristorantes were filled to the gills in our corner of Brooklyn with folks enamored of the play-not-to-lose game called, accurately, futbol. We must admit, these guys are fine athletes, but c’mon man, take a shot now and then. And who was the fellow with the hair who couldn’t head the ball into the goal on a corner. Maybe he needed a haircut.
Meanwhile, the most exciting futbol game around is being played by “hosers” in North America’s northernmost nation. Our beloved Alouettes recovered mightily in the 4th quarter to win the day against the Eskimos, who seemed to have the upper hand. More than one man in motion is exciting. Teddy Roosevelt, where are you?
Monday, June 14, 2010
The One That Got Away
While working on our tan the other day, braving the risks of melanoma but capturing Vitamin D in copious amounts, we thought about the benefit/reward of relying on the solar system that God created and the number of perfect putts He has granted us.
Our laps around the star that lights our world, as a friend of ours puts it, is limited, but lap we must, and sometimes we gallop. Mr. Posada, who returned behind the plate for the Highlanders yesterday, stroked a grand slam homerun for the second day in a row. Has he used them up?
Mr. Bryant of the Land of 1,000 Lakes in subtropical Los Angeles scores 38 points in a losing effort against the Pierces and Rondos of the New England Westies. What does a guy have to do? Take another lap.
Ted Lilly of the baby bears and Gavin Floyd of the pale hose each flirted with no-hitters late into the Midwestern afternoon, but while flirting is fun, it leaves us misting up for the one that got away when our song is played. Harvey Haddix, he of the perfect game for 12 innings before losing, must wish for one more lap.
Mr. Green, the goalkeeper of the sceptered isle in the World Cup football matches, has earned the scorn of tabloid journalists in his native land for his butterfingers when Mr. Dempsey from the pines of east Texas slithered a round ball into the net. Mr. Green, meet Bill Buckner.
Mr. Strasburg of the Nationals baseball club was pulled after 5 1/3 innings, strikeouts galore with walks as well, but 100 mph cannot be denied. Kerry Wood can relate.
As the Kinks sang, “The World Keeps Turning ‘round.”
Our laps around the star that lights our world, as a friend of ours puts it, is limited, but lap we must, and sometimes we gallop. Mr. Posada, who returned behind the plate for the Highlanders yesterday, stroked a grand slam homerun for the second day in a row. Has he used them up?
Mr. Bryant of the Land of 1,000 Lakes in subtropical Los Angeles scores 38 points in a losing effort against the Pierces and Rondos of the New England Westies. What does a guy have to do? Take another lap.
Ted Lilly of the baby bears and Gavin Floyd of the pale hose each flirted with no-hitters late into the Midwestern afternoon, but while flirting is fun, it leaves us misting up for the one that got away when our song is played. Harvey Haddix, he of the perfect game for 12 innings before losing, must wish for one more lap.
Mr. Green, the goalkeeper of the sceptered isle in the World Cup football matches, has earned the scorn of tabloid journalists in his native land for his butterfingers when Mr. Dempsey from the pines of east Texas slithered a round ball into the net. Mr. Green, meet Bill Buckner.
Mr. Strasburg of the Nationals baseball club was pulled after 5 1/3 innings, strikeouts galore with walks as well, but 100 mph cannot be denied. Kerry Wood can relate.
As the Kinks sang, “The World Keeps Turning ‘round.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Perfection
In Prospect Park a few weeks ago, a young man in blue called the batter out after a foul ball hit the top of the backstop and popped into the catcher’s mitt. Which brings to mind that only catchers and first basemen have mitts. The other seven have gloves. We wince when parents say “Have you got your mitt?” to their young outfielders when they leave for their suppers in Park Slope.
After the evening contest, the young man making a few bucks adjudicating a young ladies’ softball game admitted he was wrong but couldn’t change the outcome. We patted the fellow on the back and thanked him for his effort, and he went home to Mom and his supper in Bensonhurst.
But it was Bloomsday 14 days early for James Joyce of the American League. Not the author of “Ulysses” and “Finnegan’s Wake.” Just a humble man in blue who will carry a much greater burden than a chest protector, mask and shin guards when he takes his turn behind the plate. We doubt if he had supper last night.
Mr. Joyce, umpiring at first base, will forever be linked with Detroit’s Armando Galarraga as the man who called the 27th man safe after replays showed Mr. Galarraga, covering first, clearly gloved the spheroid and tapped the bag before the batsman reached first. Mr. Galarraga’s pitching perfection marred by a moment’s imperfection.
The greatest invention of the 20th century was air conditioning. The greatest of the 21st will be a time machine. How many of us long for such a device to undo the missteps of the past? To redeem the sins of yesterday is the greatest wish of a great swath of Homo sapiens, who nevertheless march ahead, knowing that the time machine will only go forward.
We think Mr. Joyce knows this. He joins the rest of us.
After the evening contest, the young man making a few bucks adjudicating a young ladies’ softball game admitted he was wrong but couldn’t change the outcome. We patted the fellow on the back and thanked him for his effort, and he went home to Mom and his supper in Bensonhurst.
But it was Bloomsday 14 days early for James Joyce of the American League. Not the author of “Ulysses” and “Finnegan’s Wake.” Just a humble man in blue who will carry a much greater burden than a chest protector, mask and shin guards when he takes his turn behind the plate. We doubt if he had supper last night.
Mr. Joyce, umpiring at first base, will forever be linked with Detroit’s Armando Galarraga as the man who called the 27th man safe after replays showed Mr. Galarraga, covering first, clearly gloved the spheroid and tapped the bag before the batsman reached first. Mr. Galarraga’s pitching perfection marred by a moment’s imperfection.
The greatest invention of the 20th century was air conditioning. The greatest of the 21st will be a time machine. How many of us long for such a device to undo the missteps of the past? To redeem the sins of yesterday is the greatest wish of a great swath of Homo sapiens, who nevertheless march ahead, knowing that the time machine will only go forward.
We think Mr. Joyce knows this. He joins the rest of us.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Weep No More, My Lady
Louisianan Mr. Bo-rail rode the name of an extinct Park Slope, Brooklyn, drug store to victory in the 136th edition of the premier equine race in North America. Yes, Super Saver (the colt, not the drug store) hugged the rail and then split a couple of fellow thoroughbreds amid the mud and mint juleps to be adorned with roses.
He was in our trifecta box along with Ice Box. Boxes abound! Alas, Lookin at Lucky finished out of the money to render our ticket another relic of 2010 nostalgia, along with the bull market. Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve. As Dandy Don used to say on Monday nights, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a very merry Christmas. Got to hand it to Meredith. He knew how to use the subjunctive mood, which Cosell would have applauded when “speaking of sports.” We loved those radio spots.
And if we hadn’t broken our Cardinal rule (pun intended) of going against Roy Halladay of the Philadelphia club today we would be in the money despite the plunging Dow Jones Industrial Average, which forgot to beware of Greeks bearing debt (forget about the gifts). Granted, there may have been someone pushing a button that he thought was a million and turned out to be a billion, but times being what they are, he took the job and took the market away down south in Dixie.
Still, there’s more going on than an errant ring finger on a keyboard. There are too many languages in the old world. You travel 100 miles and you’re in a different land. If you can speak a bit of Spanish, you’re OK in the new world, which awaits the jobs report tomorrow morning. This may be China’s century, but the USA still has a few licks left in her. Expect gains in payrolls but not enough to nick the unemployment rate
We’re betting against the euro and still believe that investors should hold Ford, buy Hovnanian Enterprises (a home builder; ticker HOV) and never go against Halladay.
We can’t say it better than this:
“France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter--it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.”
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Swimmers”)
He was in our trifecta box along with Ice Box. Boxes abound! Alas, Lookin at Lucky finished out of the money to render our ticket another relic of 2010 nostalgia, along with the bull market. Would’ve, should’ve, could’ve. As Dandy Don used to say on Monday nights, if ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we’d all have a very merry Christmas. Got to hand it to Meredith. He knew how to use the subjunctive mood, which Cosell would have applauded when “speaking of sports.” We loved those radio spots.
And if we hadn’t broken our Cardinal rule (pun intended) of going against Roy Halladay of the Philadelphia club today we would be in the money despite the plunging Dow Jones Industrial Average, which forgot to beware of Greeks bearing debt (forget about the gifts). Granted, there may have been someone pushing a button that he thought was a million and turned out to be a billion, but times being what they are, he took the job and took the market away down south in Dixie.
Still, there’s more going on than an errant ring finger on a keyboard. There are too many languages in the old world. You travel 100 miles and you’re in a different land. If you can speak a bit of Spanish, you’re OK in the new world, which awaits the jobs report tomorrow morning. This may be China’s century, but the USA still has a few licks left in her. Expect gains in payrolls but not enough to nick the unemployment rate
We’re betting against the euro and still believe that investors should hold Ford, buy Hovnanian Enterprises (a home builder; ticker HOV) and never go against Halladay.
We can’t say it better than this:
“France was a land, England was a people, but America, having about it still that quality of the idea, was harder to utter--it was the graves at Shiloh and the tired, drawn, nervous faces of its great men, and the country boys dying in the Argonne for a phrase that was empty before their bodies withered. It was a willingness of the heart.”
(F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Swimmers”)
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Break 'em Up
The sun came up this morning. The coffee percolated and we breathed a sigh of relief. Our golf clubs were still with us. Phew! We had awoken from a dream in which some rascal stole our gear out of the cart when we were sauntering down the fairway looking for our ball. He left us our wedge and putter in the correct belief that we had used up all the good shots God had granted them.
When we gathered all the suspects at a dinner table in the grill room, it became obvious who the culprit was. Too obvious. It wasn’t the mustachioed sandbagger with a sly sneer on his lips. It turned out the club pro, resplendent in Nike logos, had swiped them because he wanted us to buy another set from him and take another lesson.
Aha! we exclaimed, as we petted Asta, kissed Nora, mixed a martini and watched the flat-footed detective take the son of a gun away in handcuffs.
Essentially, didn’t certain Wall Street banks sell us certain sets of clubs with the expectation that we would lose them to a purloiner and thus have to pay for another? It was a contract in which the golfer finds that the seller has collected the insurance because he had another contract predicting with assurance you would lose the shiny Titleist blades. Heads I win, tails you lose, and you are left with two clubs that have spent their usefulness.
President Obama is slated to speak today at Cooper Union in New York, the same venue at which Lincoln argued that the republic had the power granted by the founding fathers to prevent extension of slavery into the western territories.
But Mr. Obama’s address will be pointed at a different kind of plantation owner asserting his “rights” – not the Southern demand that an owner of human chattel be assured the privilege of taking his slaves into whatever jurisdiction he chose, but the Wall Street clamor to indiscriminately create trading opportunities for its own benefit at the expense of the public contract.
Blankfein and Dimon must yield. Tea Partiers and latte-sipping Park Slopers at least agree on this: “Break up the Yankees!”
Meanwhile, take the Phillies every time Roy Halladay is on the mound.
When we gathered all the suspects at a dinner table in the grill room, it became obvious who the culprit was. Too obvious. It wasn’t the mustachioed sandbagger with a sly sneer on his lips. It turned out the club pro, resplendent in Nike logos, had swiped them because he wanted us to buy another set from him and take another lesson.
Aha! we exclaimed, as we petted Asta, kissed Nora, mixed a martini and watched the flat-footed detective take the son of a gun away in handcuffs.
Essentially, didn’t certain Wall Street banks sell us certain sets of clubs with the expectation that we would lose them to a purloiner and thus have to pay for another? It was a contract in which the golfer finds that the seller has collected the insurance because he had another contract predicting with assurance you would lose the shiny Titleist blades. Heads I win, tails you lose, and you are left with two clubs that have spent their usefulness.
President Obama is slated to speak today at Cooper Union in New York, the same venue at which Lincoln argued that the republic had the power granted by the founding fathers to prevent extension of slavery into the western territories.
But Mr. Obama’s address will be pointed at a different kind of plantation owner asserting his “rights” – not the Southern demand that an owner of human chattel be assured the privilege of taking his slaves into whatever jurisdiction he chose, but the Wall Street clamor to indiscriminately create trading opportunities for its own benefit at the expense of the public contract.
Blankfein and Dimon must yield. Tea Partiers and latte-sipping Park Slopers at least agree on this: “Break up the Yankees!”
Meanwhile, take the Phillies every time Roy Halladay is on the mound.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Credit
There are missed chances and then there are missed chances.
Aging Mr. Posada fails to glove a pitch and his New York Highlanders fall to the rival bloody ankles of Boston on opening night. Oh well, one hundred and sixty-one games to go, and Mr. Posada will catch again tonight.
Young Mr. Hayward of Butler launches a half-court last-gasp shot that just rims out and the Dukes of Hazard claim the NCAA Division 1 men’s championship. No rematch, but at least the Bulldogs covered the spread (for entertainment purposes only).
It makes one wonder how old and young men handle failure. Mr. Posada has World Series rings galore in his jewelry box and will likely get another. He’ll be fine.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hayward will probably replay that last three seconds in his head to the grave. But he earned a place in sports history.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly,” wrote Teddy Roosevelt (OK, Dick Nixon quoted him, too).
The credit. Raise your head up, young man. Mr. Posada of the Highlanders will catch pitches from Mr. Burnett, who isn’t exactly simpatico with his battery mate, in their second game of the year tonight (take the bloody ankles tonight for entertainment purposes only).
Mr. Hayward, however, will find a cure for cancer, if not the common cold or financial derivatives. Even if he doesn't, he can know he was valiant.
Aging Mr. Posada fails to glove a pitch and his New York Highlanders fall to the rival bloody ankles of Boston on opening night. Oh well, one hundred and sixty-one games to go, and Mr. Posada will catch again tonight.
Young Mr. Hayward of Butler launches a half-court last-gasp shot that just rims out and the Dukes of Hazard claim the NCAA Division 1 men’s championship. No rematch, but at least the Bulldogs covered the spread (for entertainment purposes only).
It makes one wonder how old and young men handle failure. Mr. Posada has World Series rings galore in his jewelry box and will likely get another. He’ll be fine.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hayward will probably replay that last three seconds in his head to the grave. But he earned a place in sports history.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly,” wrote Teddy Roosevelt (OK, Dick Nixon quoted him, too).
The credit. Raise your head up, young man. Mr. Posada of the Highlanders will catch pitches from Mr. Burnett, who isn’t exactly simpatico with his battery mate, in their second game of the year tonight (take the bloody ankles tonight for entertainment purposes only).
Mr. Hayward, however, will find a cure for cancer, if not the common cold or financial derivatives. Even if he doesn't, he can know he was valiant.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Bow Your Heads in Prayer
We used to think that all things become quaint. Hula hoops to Frisbees to My Mother the Car. Mutual Assured Destruction to Jonathan Livingston Seagull to frosted mugs of A&W root beer. American women who love Mad Men to American men who tuned into Australian Rules Football when ESPN was in its infancy.
But sweet little sixteen, in Chuck Berry’s phrase, resonates every year. The riches of this sporting season embarrass us. Northern Iowa dethroning Kansas. Purdue plodding along without its stalwart. ‘Cuse dominating without its big man. The scholarshipless Cornell winning two to meet mighty Kentucky.
And the greatest moment so far, a Spartan who ducked and gave his teammate the chance to catch and shoot at the buzzer.
He must have seen out of the corner of his eye young Lucious calling for the ball. Looking for an open man, the Michigan State fellow dribbling upcourt fired the rock that way, and the gentleman in the way, rather than reaching for what anyone would have taken for an errant pass, lowered his impressive frame to let the ball zip by into the hands of his intrepid teammate, who took a bounce of the ball and drilled it. String music.
“I seen my opportunities and I took ‘em,” as a Tammany Hall lieutenant said in the 19th century.
As the world turns (some say the earth has tilted a couple of inches off its axis because of the devastating earthquakes in Haiti), the better part of valor is to decline so that another may insure success for the clan.
Competition is a constant. We think it’s what Einstein was looking for to complete his unified field theory. We continue to miss the moment in space and time when a young man bows his head so that his brother might succeed.
Nothing quaint about that.
But sweet little sixteen, in Chuck Berry’s phrase, resonates every year. The riches of this sporting season embarrass us. Northern Iowa dethroning Kansas. Purdue plodding along without its stalwart. ‘Cuse dominating without its big man. The scholarshipless Cornell winning two to meet mighty Kentucky.
And the greatest moment so far, a Spartan who ducked and gave his teammate the chance to catch and shoot at the buzzer.
He must have seen out of the corner of his eye young Lucious calling for the ball. Looking for an open man, the Michigan State fellow dribbling upcourt fired the rock that way, and the gentleman in the way, rather than reaching for what anyone would have taken for an errant pass, lowered his impressive frame to let the ball zip by into the hands of his intrepid teammate, who took a bounce of the ball and drilled it. String music.
“I seen my opportunities and I took ‘em,” as a Tammany Hall lieutenant said in the 19th century.
As the world turns (some say the earth has tilted a couple of inches off its axis because of the devastating earthquakes in Haiti), the better part of valor is to decline so that another may insure success for the clan.
Competition is a constant. We think it’s what Einstein was looking for to complete his unified field theory. We continue to miss the moment in space and time when a young man bows his head so that his brother might succeed.
Nothing quaint about that.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Song of the Sporting Man
A friend of ours voiced a thought recently that has often struck us. To wit, “It’s a young man’s game,” which is why we play golf and doubles tennis rather than touch football anymore.
We envy men with theme songs to serenade them through this vale of tears: The Nazarene Jeter and strains of New York, New York; the saintly Brees aboard the City of New Orleans; the maple-leafed Crosby and O Canada, King James and the Cuyahoga (burn on big river).
Song and the sporting man are linked in a way that is poetry in motion (yep, it was Johnny Tillotson, he of telethon fame).
Though motion eludes the sporting man approaching his dotage, every now and then he ignores the doubtful knee and the looming obligation of completing the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle to aspire to the artistry of Tim Lincecum’s delivery or Ichiro Suzuki’s swing.
“C’mon, man,” get the legs moving, give it a try. There is nothing more dispiriting to us than the young man or woman who slothfully gives up and yields to the blandishment of the easy way out. Granted, talents are parceled out unequally and what few we may have decay with age, but that iron-clad fact of nature can’t keep us from seeking glory.
We will never find it at the plate, or under center, or in the crease, or behind the three-point line, but isn’t there a chant that we hear in our heads that keeps us shaving every morning and attending girls’ softball games.
Ours is: “G-o-o-d-e-y-e. Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye!”
We envy men with theme songs to serenade them through this vale of tears: The Nazarene Jeter and strains of New York, New York; the saintly Brees aboard the City of New Orleans; the maple-leafed Crosby and O Canada, King James and the Cuyahoga (burn on big river).
Song and the sporting man are linked in a way that is poetry in motion (yep, it was Johnny Tillotson, he of telethon fame).
Though motion eludes the sporting man approaching his dotage, every now and then he ignores the doubtful knee and the looming obligation of completing the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle to aspire to the artistry of Tim Lincecum’s delivery or Ichiro Suzuki’s swing.
“C’mon, man,” get the legs moving, give it a try. There is nothing more dispiriting to us than the young man or woman who slothfully gives up and yields to the blandishment of the easy way out. Granted, talents are parceled out unequally and what few we may have decay with age, but that iron-clad fact of nature can’t keep us from seeking glory.
We will never find it at the plate, or under center, or in the crease, or behind the three-point line, but isn’t there a chant that we hear in our heads that keeps us shaving every morning and attending girls’ softball games.
Ours is: “G-o-o-d-e-y-e. Good Eye, Good Eye, Good Eye!”
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Elephants and Whales
We were deep into the healthcare reform summit, determined to figure out this enigma wrapped in a riddle, when a friend notified us that the women’s curling semi-finals were on the USA network. We left the gas bags behind and quickly switched channels.
You can have your Lindsey Vonns, Apolo Ohnos, Johnny Weirs and snowboard dudes and dudettes; we’ll take the ladies of delicate releases, gentle twists of slim wrists followed by the furious sweeping or gentle nursing of dedicated handmaids, aiding the direction and speed of m’lady’s stone.
It’s a chess match on ice, matched only by the thrust and parry of our republic’s representatives in advocating competing cures for healthcare nation. To hear them talk, one would think 300 million people were in the intensive care unit and the remaining few were asking the ailing if they want to live forever.
“It’s a thingy, a fiendish thingy!” as George Harrison exclaimed in the curling sequence in “Help!”.
Yes it is, George. Luckily, Ringo escaped the exploding stone and the Beatles found themselves at Scotland Yard, seeking protection.
“And you shall have it,” the intrepid inspector promised as he cowered beneath his desk.
Just as the wide-eyed Ms. Ott of Switzerland (is she related to Mel of New York baseball Giants fame, who caused Leo Durocher to famously assert, “nice guys, they’ll finish last”?) and the steely Ms. Bernard of Canada dueled in Vancouver, the lawmakers slid their stones, sweeping with statistics, studies and anecdotes in an effort to announce checkmate. Alas, it was a stalemate.
In curling, competitors get extra innings, er, “ends,” to determine a winner. In policy-making, suits and ties and strands of pearls spin stories until the mind is dizzy with argument.
It seemed to us that one of the purposes of these United States is to save capitalism from its voracious self. Someone has to train the captive elephant not to step on the fleas, or let the beast roam the savanna; persuade the captive killer whale not to eat its keeper, or let the whale kill who it might in the ocean.
‘Tis a special art, like curling and (dare we mention it) golf, which requires furious effort or benign neglect. Yet, as Joyce told us, the newspapers were right. The snow was general all over Ireland, falling faintly on the living and the dead.
You can have your Lindsey Vonns, Apolo Ohnos, Johnny Weirs and snowboard dudes and dudettes; we’ll take the ladies of delicate releases, gentle twists of slim wrists followed by the furious sweeping or gentle nursing of dedicated handmaids, aiding the direction and speed of m’lady’s stone.
It’s a chess match on ice, matched only by the thrust and parry of our republic’s representatives in advocating competing cures for healthcare nation. To hear them talk, one would think 300 million people were in the intensive care unit and the remaining few were asking the ailing if they want to live forever.
“It’s a thingy, a fiendish thingy!” as George Harrison exclaimed in the curling sequence in “Help!”.
Yes it is, George. Luckily, Ringo escaped the exploding stone and the Beatles found themselves at Scotland Yard, seeking protection.
“And you shall have it,” the intrepid inspector promised as he cowered beneath his desk.
Just as the wide-eyed Ms. Ott of Switzerland (is she related to Mel of New York baseball Giants fame, who caused Leo Durocher to famously assert, “nice guys, they’ll finish last”?) and the steely Ms. Bernard of Canada dueled in Vancouver, the lawmakers slid their stones, sweeping with statistics, studies and anecdotes in an effort to announce checkmate. Alas, it was a stalemate.
In curling, competitors get extra innings, er, “ends,” to determine a winner. In policy-making, suits and ties and strands of pearls spin stories until the mind is dizzy with argument.
It seemed to us that one of the purposes of these United States is to save capitalism from its voracious self. Someone has to train the captive elephant not to step on the fleas, or let the beast roam the savanna; persuade the captive killer whale not to eat its keeper, or let the whale kill who it might in the ocean.
‘Tis a special art, like curling and (dare we mention it) golf, which requires furious effort or benign neglect. Yet, as Joyce told us, the newspapers were right. The snow was general all over Ireland, falling faintly on the living and the dead.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
This Lenten Life
The cruelest month? ‘Taint April, Mr. Eliot. It’s February in Brooklyn: bare trees snarling at us; snow still piled on the shady side of the street; surly young men with sweatshirt hoods shrouding their faces, looking like so many Unabombers; nervous young mothers and take-charge nannies clogging the grimy sidewalks, pushing strollers that wrap their young’ns in plastic; sad brownstones gray with a kind of bone-deep moisture; the endless analysis of NBA contracts, the hair-shirt advent of Lent (how’s that for mixing liturgical seasons?).
But there’s hope. Lent’s privations will lead to Easter. Tulips will bloom and bare trees will smile. The hooded swains will bare their heads to seek their Jills. The byzantine NBA will give way to the Amen Corner at Augusta National. Children will frolic in parks while radiant parents and caretakers enjoy a picnic lunch, leaving the sidewalks free for us surly old men on meaningless jaunts.
We know these things are true because a flock of millionaires and wannabes are at this very moment spitting sunflower seeds before heading to the golf course in the gentler winters of Florida and Arizona. We all would have been among them at one time if not for the indisputable fact that hitting a curveball is impossible in the real world. This feat requires a magical incantation passed down among a select few from Nap Lajoie and Wee Willie Keeler (“hit ’em where they ain’t) to Joe Mauer and Albert Pujols. Will Dan Brown reveal it in his next “Da Vinci Code” spin-off?
Forlorn as we are in this somber period, itching to take to the local muni track with yet another new swing and putting stroke, the boys of summer at winter training (hey, it ain’t spring yet) fill us with hope of life after death. They have convinced us to embrace each new minute of sunlight that appears with every revolution of the planet until the vernal equinox, an event for mourning because the hourglass is turned over and the daytime begins to dwindle ever so sneakily.
Before that day in June, we predict the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates will meet in the 2010 World Series and Eldrick Woods will retire from golf to become a Buddhist monk.
But there’s hope. Lent’s privations will lead to Easter. Tulips will bloom and bare trees will smile. The hooded swains will bare their heads to seek their Jills. The byzantine NBA will give way to the Amen Corner at Augusta National. Children will frolic in parks while radiant parents and caretakers enjoy a picnic lunch, leaving the sidewalks free for us surly old men on meaningless jaunts.
We know these things are true because a flock of millionaires and wannabes are at this very moment spitting sunflower seeds before heading to the golf course in the gentler winters of Florida and Arizona. We all would have been among them at one time if not for the indisputable fact that hitting a curveball is impossible in the real world. This feat requires a magical incantation passed down among a select few from Nap Lajoie and Wee Willie Keeler (“hit ’em where they ain’t) to Joe Mauer and Albert Pujols. Will Dan Brown reveal it in his next “Da Vinci Code” spin-off?
Forlorn as we are in this somber period, itching to take to the local muni track with yet another new swing and putting stroke, the boys of summer at winter training (hey, it ain’t spring yet) fill us with hope of life after death. They have convinced us to embrace each new minute of sunlight that appears with every revolution of the planet until the vernal equinox, an event for mourning because the hourglass is turned over and the daytime begins to dwindle ever so sneakily.
Before that day in June, we predict the Kansas City Royals and the Pittsburgh Pirates will meet in the 2010 World Series and Eldrick Woods will retire from golf to become a Buddhist monk.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Fail Safe
Failure is an illusion. “Be not proud … for thou art not so,” John Donne said of the ultimate failure.
In the late, great Supe 44, the crucial decision wasn’t Coach Sean Payton’s onside kick at the beginning of the second half, which led to a score. It wasn’t Tracy Porter jumping the route (as the football mavens say) in front of Reggie Wayne, which led to a game-sealing pick six (as they also say).
No, the big moment for the fleur de lis of New Orleans vs. the horseshoes of Indianapolis was going on fourth down and goal at the two near the end of the first half – and failing. The Colts were exultant over their goal-line stand. Yet their doom was sealed. Be not proud.
The horseshoes curled in their cocoon. Why didn’t Manning and company get aggressive and throw the ball downfield to get a first down? Instead, they went three and out and punted, giving the holy ones a short field and a resulting field goal – the same number of points they would have corralled if they had not gone for the touchdown, kicked off and given Manning and company a perfect chance to increase their lead.
The rest is history, as the experts say.
Sometimes the singular failures that mark our lives mask the sweeter things that follow. The girl who guffawed when we asked her out because she smiled a certain way, yet a great love with another followed. Going for broke from behind the trees only to end up with a mere 10 yards and still make par. Then there was the truly momentous decision to poach in a doubles tennis match and send a sure winner out beyond the line and win the game on a double fault.
Here’s to failure! We wish we could have been on Bourbon Street Sunday night.
In the late, great Supe 44, the crucial decision wasn’t Coach Sean Payton’s onside kick at the beginning of the second half, which led to a score. It wasn’t Tracy Porter jumping the route (as the football mavens say) in front of Reggie Wayne, which led to a game-sealing pick six (as they also say).
No, the big moment for the fleur de lis of New Orleans vs. the horseshoes of Indianapolis was going on fourth down and goal at the two near the end of the first half – and failing. The Colts were exultant over their goal-line stand. Yet their doom was sealed. Be not proud.
The horseshoes curled in their cocoon. Why didn’t Manning and company get aggressive and throw the ball downfield to get a first down? Instead, they went three and out and punted, giving the holy ones a short field and a resulting field goal – the same number of points they would have corralled if they had not gone for the touchdown, kicked off and given Manning and company a perfect chance to increase their lead.
The rest is history, as the experts say.
Sometimes the singular failures that mark our lives mask the sweeter things that follow. The girl who guffawed when we asked her out because she smiled a certain way, yet a great love with another followed. Going for broke from behind the trees only to end up with a mere 10 yards and still make par. Then there was the truly momentous decision to poach in a doubles tennis match and send a sure winner out beyond the line and win the game on a double fault.
Here’s to failure! We wish we could have been on Bourbon Street Sunday night.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Perchance to Dream
We know that recounting dreams is fascinating to the teller and tedious for the listener, but recount we must. Somehow we had become POTUS. Yes, that’s right, president of the United States. Strangely, we had never campaigned and thus had not undergone the intense vetting of our personal life. W appeared and told us not to worry. Cut taxes and start a few wars, he advised.
We were terrified. Surely some nosy reporter would find that square-grooved Ping wedge in our bag and get us banned for life from playing with our previously unsuspecting golfing buddies. What good is a president who can’t find anyone who will play with him? A president sans golf is a sad thing to contemplate.
The snooty Old World would harrumph when we pleaded for help in our Middle East adventures. China, appearing to own this century, would refuse to buy our Treasury bonds. Portugal, Spain and Greece, teetering on the brink of budgetary disaster, would require us to pay outlandish greens fees. Children would give us the Bronx cheer when we came to read “My Pet Goat.”
Why, a man, not to mention a POTUS, without golf is like Robert E. Lee without Stonewall Jackson. “He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right arm.” (No offense to one-armed golfers).
Yet, as we took office in midwinter and the annual addition of fat around our girth made buttoning our slacks a bit of a wrestling match, we found that our Chancellorsville victory was not pyrrhic. We had not lost our right arm. The Tea Partiers had arrived to save the day and reattach it.
Dimon and Blankfein took their bonuses in restricted stock and stock options (boo hoo), the Cosmo centerfold took the oath of office in the world’s greatest deliberative body, the productivity of the American worker surged in the latest quarter because fewer hamsters were running faster, the Super Bowl pitted the horseshoed computer with a right arm against the Big Easy “Breesy” lads.
“When you break it down,” we said to the hopeful nation, “expect Reggie Bush to pop a big return to make the difference. The Saints will go marching in. For entertainment purposes only, take the points, my fellow citizens, and invest your funtime winnings in my next campaign, in which I pledge to use a legal wedge and thus secure our return to the world’s end zone. Then drop kick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of life.”
We awake on a frosty morning, floating end over end through the uprights as time expires. Good luck to all.
We were terrified. Surely some nosy reporter would find that square-grooved Ping wedge in our bag and get us banned for life from playing with our previously unsuspecting golfing buddies. What good is a president who can’t find anyone who will play with him? A president sans golf is a sad thing to contemplate.
The snooty Old World would harrumph when we pleaded for help in our Middle East adventures. China, appearing to own this century, would refuse to buy our Treasury bonds. Portugal, Spain and Greece, teetering on the brink of budgetary disaster, would require us to pay outlandish greens fees. Children would give us the Bronx cheer when we came to read “My Pet Goat.”
Why, a man, not to mention a POTUS, without golf is like Robert E. Lee without Stonewall Jackson. “He has lost his left arm, but I have lost my right arm.” (No offense to one-armed golfers).
Yet, as we took office in midwinter and the annual addition of fat around our girth made buttoning our slacks a bit of a wrestling match, we found that our Chancellorsville victory was not pyrrhic. We had not lost our right arm. The Tea Partiers had arrived to save the day and reattach it.
Dimon and Blankfein took their bonuses in restricted stock and stock options (boo hoo), the Cosmo centerfold took the oath of office in the world’s greatest deliberative body, the productivity of the American worker surged in the latest quarter because fewer hamsters were running faster, the Super Bowl pitted the horseshoed computer with a right arm against the Big Easy “Breesy” lads.
“When you break it down,” we said to the hopeful nation, “expect Reggie Bush to pop a big return to make the difference. The Saints will go marching in. For entertainment purposes only, take the points, my fellow citizens, and invest your funtime winnings in my next campaign, in which I pledge to use a legal wedge and thus secure our return to the world’s end zone. Then drop kick me, Jesus, through the goalposts of life.”
We awake on a frosty morning, floating end over end through the uprights as time expires. Good luck to all.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Unhorsed
We can almost hear the Indianapolis Colts’ President Bill Polian shouting “An ankle, an ankle, my kingdom for an ankle!” His remarkable right defensive end, Dwight Freeney, like Richard III, has been unhorsed. A torn ligament in the crucial joint just before the battle with the New Orleans Saints in Miami has apparently pushed the spread down a point to minus 5 in favor of the horseshoes.
The news must have made the saintly quarterback Drew Brees draw a breath of hope that his blind side might be less vulnerable with Freeney possibly out of action.
Our national economy had a blind side, too. Wall Street, oblivious to its own hubris, pummeled pedestrian quarterbacks with pass rushing techniques that defied chip blocks. Exotic mortgage securities and credit default swaps eventually swamped the credit markets and the pass rushers themselves. No flags were thrown.
After dusting themselves off with the help of taxpayers, the game resumed, the pass rushers doing God’s work in directing capital to its most efficient use, which meant outsized bonuses for the saints of capitalism while unemployment stayed at 10%. “Kezar Stadium, Roman Gabriel back to pass…but no! from out of nowhere, it’s Paul Volcker to intercept!”
The lion-hearted Volcker, the first and last Fed chairman to use money supply as a target and let interest rates roam where they may, has become the left tackle protecting our blind side, essentially urging a return to Glass-Steagall, the 1930s legislation that separated commercial banking from investment banking to prevent conflicts of interest. Of course, the Goldman Sachses and Morgan Stanleys, now officially bank holding companies but retaining proprietary trading desks, do not wish to be fettered.
“Yeah. That’s it. More. That’s right! I want more!” Edward G. Robinson confessed in a bathtub to Humphrey Bogart. (Name that movie, sports fans).
But in fairness, bashing Wall Street is tantamount to bashing New York. Let’s face it; the pinstriped bankers buy lots of goods and services with those checks. Folks in Detroit similarly would love to see GM, Ford and Chrysler flourish.
But there have to be rules. It reminds us of Phil Mickelson’s use of grandfathered Ping wedges with square grooves. The United States Golf Association has banned such wedges, but a successful lawsuit allowed the Ping clubs to be used. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em was the outcome. Those without an old wedge in the garage are at a disadvantage. Those who use them may not be technically cheating, but they are akin to Judge Smails invoking winter rules on a sunny summer day. How about a Fresca?
There may not be a God, as Bishop Pickering said after being struck by lightning just as he was about to break the course record at Bushwood, but down here we need someone – the Fed, the SEC , whomever – to keep the sky from falling on the weekend duffer and the blind side safe for the Central Park quarterback. Manning, Brees, Mickelson and Wall Street can take care of themselves. They get paid plenty for it.
The news must have made the saintly quarterback Drew Brees draw a breath of hope that his blind side might be less vulnerable with Freeney possibly out of action.
Our national economy had a blind side, too. Wall Street, oblivious to its own hubris, pummeled pedestrian quarterbacks with pass rushing techniques that defied chip blocks. Exotic mortgage securities and credit default swaps eventually swamped the credit markets and the pass rushers themselves. No flags were thrown.
After dusting themselves off with the help of taxpayers, the game resumed, the pass rushers doing God’s work in directing capital to its most efficient use, which meant outsized bonuses for the saints of capitalism while unemployment stayed at 10%. “Kezar Stadium, Roman Gabriel back to pass…but no! from out of nowhere, it’s Paul Volcker to intercept!”
The lion-hearted Volcker, the first and last Fed chairman to use money supply as a target and let interest rates roam where they may, has become the left tackle protecting our blind side, essentially urging a return to Glass-Steagall, the 1930s legislation that separated commercial banking from investment banking to prevent conflicts of interest. Of course, the Goldman Sachses and Morgan Stanleys, now officially bank holding companies but retaining proprietary trading desks, do not wish to be fettered.
“Yeah. That’s it. More. That’s right! I want more!” Edward G. Robinson confessed in a bathtub to Humphrey Bogart. (Name that movie, sports fans).
But in fairness, bashing Wall Street is tantamount to bashing New York. Let’s face it; the pinstriped bankers buy lots of goods and services with those checks. Folks in Detroit similarly would love to see GM, Ford and Chrysler flourish.
But there have to be rules. It reminds us of Phil Mickelson’s use of grandfathered Ping wedges with square grooves. The United States Golf Association has banned such wedges, but a successful lawsuit allowed the Ping clubs to be used. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em was the outcome. Those without an old wedge in the garage are at a disadvantage. Those who use them may not be technically cheating, but they are akin to Judge Smails invoking winter rules on a sunny summer day. How about a Fresca?
There may not be a God, as Bishop Pickering said after being struck by lightning just as he was about to break the course record at Bushwood, but down here we need someone – the Fed, the SEC , whomever – to keep the sky from falling on the weekend duffer and the blind side safe for the Central Park quarterback. Manning, Brees, Mickelson and Wall Street can take care of themselves. They get paid plenty for it.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
1-800-Go Against...
… is the moniker that a good friend of ours hangs on our sporting picks (for entertainment purposes only). It was never more apt than yesterday, when we took both dogs against the spread in the NFL divisional playoffs. The only correct prediction was the over in the Arizona-New Orleans game, thanks to Reggie Bush, which, by the way, sounds like a name the patrician presidential family would have given to one of its progeny.
Nevertheless, we’re undaunted, sticking with the dogs today (Dallas and New York) to win outright, also expecting the over in the Dallas-Minnesota game (45 ½ pts) and the under (42 pts) in the New York-San Diego game. Tony Romo and Miles Austin will shred the Vikings, despite Bret Favre. Mark Sanchez is too cool and Braylon Edwards will use stickum to hang on to TD passes.
So if you want to entertain yourselves, dial the number and go against these predictions. Or take the plunge in the Atlantic off Coney Island, you brave polar bears in Speedos, but don’t blame us for significant shrinkage.
Nevertheless, we’re undaunted, sticking with the dogs today (Dallas and New York) to win outright, also expecting the over in the Dallas-Minnesota game (45 ½ pts) and the under (42 pts) in the New York-San Diego game. Tony Romo and Miles Austin will shred the Vikings, despite Bret Favre. Mark Sanchez is too cool and Braylon Edwards will use stickum to hang on to TD passes.
So if you want to entertain yourselves, dial the number and go against these predictions. Or take the plunge in the Atlantic off Coney Island, you brave polar bears in Speedos, but don’t blame us for significant shrinkage.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Make Mine Rare
Blood and guts spilled on the first hole of Dyker Beach yesterday. And it wasn’t some poor soul committing hari kari after an exasperating three-putt.
As we trundled down the frozen fairway after a less-than-perfect tee shot, a bird of prey, wings spread imperiously, swooped down in front of us. Did it think the Titleist was an egg to be rescued from the five-iron about to smack it? No, the regal, stoic hawk, secure in its power over small mammals, had espied breakfast, a fat, furry protein source running for its life. The squirrel took to the nearest tree, grasping the trunk midway up, hidden from the view of the hunter.
Ah, but Mr. or Ms. Hawk is a patient stalker. He or she (how do you tell the gender of fowl?) stood motionless with what we swear was a satisfied smirk on its beak. Then in a flurry of action that can only be described as primeval, this descendant of velociraptors swung around to the other side of the trunk and tore the unfortunate fellow to pieces, gorging itself on a feast of raw flesh. Which made us put down our Danish and contemplate the cruel rule of the food chain and the suddenness with which we vanish from this vale of tears.
The squirrel, at the moment of leaving this sporting life, once filled by gleeful gathering of acorns and procreating with playful abandon, must have screamed in his squirrel brain, “There is no God!”
Yes, there is, Virginia. Indeed, there are several. Monotheism is overrated. Just as the Greco-Roman pantheon of immortals meddled mercilessly in human affairs, the hawks of high finance insist on eating filet mignon (squirrel meat is actually delicious rolled in flour or corn meal and fried) washed down with ambrosia.
The gods of Wall Street complain about the fettering of finance, while record profits and bonuses were made possible by making them whole at the taxpayer’s expense (see the pledge to back the liabilities of Bear Stearns and AIG, for example). We understand the argument that the need to make dough oils the wheels of commerce and that upper middle-class families organize their lives around the expected bonus. We also understand that it can’t be built on the backs of the squirrels.
As fun as it was to be out in the winter sunshine and watch the hawk fill its belly, we note that yet again life is not fair. Squirrels must be culled; hopes to break 100 must be dashed. Alas, a bogey on 18 put the final tally at 100 even.
As we trundled down the frozen fairway after a less-than-perfect tee shot, a bird of prey, wings spread imperiously, swooped down in front of us. Did it think the Titleist was an egg to be rescued from the five-iron about to smack it? No, the regal, stoic hawk, secure in its power over small mammals, had espied breakfast, a fat, furry protein source running for its life. The squirrel took to the nearest tree, grasping the trunk midway up, hidden from the view of the hunter.
Ah, but Mr. or Ms. Hawk is a patient stalker. He or she (how do you tell the gender of fowl?) stood motionless with what we swear was a satisfied smirk on its beak. Then in a flurry of action that can only be described as primeval, this descendant of velociraptors swung around to the other side of the trunk and tore the unfortunate fellow to pieces, gorging itself on a feast of raw flesh. Which made us put down our Danish and contemplate the cruel rule of the food chain and the suddenness with which we vanish from this vale of tears.
The squirrel, at the moment of leaving this sporting life, once filled by gleeful gathering of acorns and procreating with playful abandon, must have screamed in his squirrel brain, “There is no God!”
Yes, there is, Virginia. Indeed, there are several. Monotheism is overrated. Just as the Greco-Roman pantheon of immortals meddled mercilessly in human affairs, the hawks of high finance insist on eating filet mignon (squirrel meat is actually delicious rolled in flour or corn meal and fried) washed down with ambrosia.
The gods of Wall Street complain about the fettering of finance, while record profits and bonuses were made possible by making them whole at the taxpayer’s expense (see the pledge to back the liabilities of Bear Stearns and AIG, for example). We understand the argument that the need to make dough oils the wheels of commerce and that upper middle-class families organize their lives around the expected bonus. We also understand that it can’t be built on the backs of the squirrels.
As fun as it was to be out in the winter sunshine and watch the hawk fill its belly, we note that yet again life is not fair. Squirrels must be culled; hopes to break 100 must be dashed. Alas, a bogey on 18 put the final tally at 100 even.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Kicker
The feast of the Epiphany has come and gone. The three kings have followed the star, presented their gifts, genuflected before the new-born king and Christmas trees are now hauled to the curbside in 2010 Anno Domini to become mulch for spring flowers. The tulips will surely come, but the green shoots of economic recovery in these United States still appear vulnerable to a longer-than-expected cold spell.
We are normally an optimistic sort, intent on keeping our summer tan from fading too much, prone to basking in a winter sun when it happens to show its face to ours, but the news makes us dither. The experts, who apparently still have jobs, tell us that the economy needs to generate 100,000 jobs a month just to keep up with the newly employable that these United States produce. However, the Labor Department said another 85,000 jobs were lost last month, and they weren’t all place kickers who failed at crucial moments.
Who in his right mind would become a kicker rather than a right guard? Anonymity in the maelstrom of the trenches surely must be superior to the glare of the spotlight and shanking it wide right as time expires. How many fans miss the pulling guard missing his block and watch the skinny kid stub his toe on a field goal try?
Advice to the jobless: eat many sirloin steaks, milk shakes and performance-enhancing drugs, learn how to zone block and switch schools when a coach leaves after one year (see Lane Kiffin). Oh, this sporting life!
Monetary policy has been loosened to the point of pushing on a string. Fiscal policy has unleashed God knows how many billions, much of it to the royalists doing God’s work on Wall Street. Money borrowed from China has been thrown at the house and car-buying markets, which, ominously, appear ready to dry up when the dough does.
The virtuous cycle is unapparent. The hope was that incentives would jump-start hiring. The job-making engine has failed to turn over. Demand in the aughts proved illusory, driven by cheap credit and the housing bubble. Look for a double-dip recession unless the “guv’ment” (as Huck Finn’s pap put it) gets with the program and puts us directly to work and not rely on giving Goldman Sachs and the like 100 cents on the dollar for what were essentially defaulted insurance policies.
Just as the wildcat formation has brought new life to the staid world of football orthodoxy, it seems that a new New Deal is called for.
Latest NFL picks are coming up. Still cogitating.
We are normally an optimistic sort, intent on keeping our summer tan from fading too much, prone to basking in a winter sun when it happens to show its face to ours, but the news makes us dither. The experts, who apparently still have jobs, tell us that the economy needs to generate 100,000 jobs a month just to keep up with the newly employable that these United States produce. However, the Labor Department said another 85,000 jobs were lost last month, and they weren’t all place kickers who failed at crucial moments.
Who in his right mind would become a kicker rather than a right guard? Anonymity in the maelstrom of the trenches surely must be superior to the glare of the spotlight and shanking it wide right as time expires. How many fans miss the pulling guard missing his block and watch the skinny kid stub his toe on a field goal try?
Advice to the jobless: eat many sirloin steaks, milk shakes and performance-enhancing drugs, learn how to zone block and switch schools when a coach leaves after one year (see Lane Kiffin). Oh, this sporting life!
Monetary policy has been loosened to the point of pushing on a string. Fiscal policy has unleashed God knows how many billions, much of it to the royalists doing God’s work on Wall Street. Money borrowed from China has been thrown at the house and car-buying markets, which, ominously, appear ready to dry up when the dough does.
The virtuous cycle is unapparent. The hope was that incentives would jump-start hiring. The job-making engine has failed to turn over. Demand in the aughts proved illusory, driven by cheap credit and the housing bubble. Look for a double-dip recession unless the “guv’ment” (as Huck Finn’s pap put it) gets with the program and puts us directly to work and not rely on giving Goldman Sachs and the like 100 cents on the dollar for what were essentially defaulted insurance policies.
Just as the wildcat formation has brought new life to the staid world of football orthodoxy, it seems that a new New Deal is called for.
Latest NFL picks are coming up. Still cogitating.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Favorites
“Poor Texas. Poor Texas.” The chant rains down from the crimson and cream side of the Cotton Bowl when Athens defeats Sparta in the Peloponnesian War now known as the Red River Rivalry.
To loyal sons and daughters of old OU, nothing is sweeter than seeing Texas cheerleaders cry. Yet, we have to confess a certain sympathy for the worthy foe, Philistines though they may be, vanquished despite Alabama coach Lou Saban’s brain cramps that gave the Longhorns the early jump. Fake punt? Can’t tell his players that a kickoff is a free ball? Cowering into a shell in the third quarter?
Two 100-hundred-yard rushers, fortuitous turnovers, Colt McCoy’s unfortunate injury and friendly refereeing (the zebras must have been betting with us) gave the Tide (what is with the elephant thing?) the victory over the spread. As predicted here. Look it up.
The player of the game? Ingram and Richardson are in the mix, but we have to give it to the big guy, Marcel Dareus, who knocked out McCoy on a clean hit and returned an intercepted shovel pass for a touchdown just before half-time with a team-mate pointing him in the right direction. Oh yeah, that way.
The underhanded pass landed in the wrong direction today with payrolls sinking again. The Labor Department estimated 85,000 jobs were lost in December, versus forecasts of a gain. Two gentlemen of south of the border origin wandered into our office two days ago asking if any labor for pay were available. They were stout fellows and had the earnest look of young Americans with success on their minds. They left without work but smiles on their faces, shoe leather hitting the pavement. President Obama and sissy Democrats should take notice.
If the job engine doesn’t get rolling and bankers still get all the do-re-mi, tea partiers will be overcome by another rebellion, that of the youngsters who are told to believe that school, hard work and paying your taxes should mean something.
In the meantime, take Cincinnati (-2 /½) over NYJ; Dallas (-3 ½) over Philadelphia.
In this day and age, underdogs are just that. When job growth resumes, we’ll start picking them.
To loyal sons and daughters of old OU, nothing is sweeter than seeing Texas cheerleaders cry. Yet, we have to confess a certain sympathy for the worthy foe, Philistines though they may be, vanquished despite Alabama coach Lou Saban’s brain cramps that gave the Longhorns the early jump. Fake punt? Can’t tell his players that a kickoff is a free ball? Cowering into a shell in the third quarter?
Two 100-hundred-yard rushers, fortuitous turnovers, Colt McCoy’s unfortunate injury and friendly refereeing (the zebras must have been betting with us) gave the Tide (what is with the elephant thing?) the victory over the spread. As predicted here. Look it up.
The player of the game? Ingram and Richardson are in the mix, but we have to give it to the big guy, Marcel Dareus, who knocked out McCoy on a clean hit and returned an intercepted shovel pass for a touchdown just before half-time with a team-mate pointing him in the right direction. Oh yeah, that way.
The underhanded pass landed in the wrong direction today with payrolls sinking again. The Labor Department estimated 85,000 jobs were lost in December, versus forecasts of a gain. Two gentlemen of south of the border origin wandered into our office two days ago asking if any labor for pay were available. They were stout fellows and had the earnest look of young Americans with success on their minds. They left without work but smiles on their faces, shoe leather hitting the pavement. President Obama and sissy Democrats should take notice.
If the job engine doesn’t get rolling and bankers still get all the do-re-mi, tea partiers will be overcome by another rebellion, that of the youngsters who are told to believe that school, hard work and paying your taxes should mean something.
In the meantime, take Cincinnati (-2 /½) over NYJ; Dallas (-3 ½) over Philadelphia.
In this day and age, underdogs are just that. When job growth resumes, we’ll start picking them.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Bowling and the Light in the Window
A half-moon hangs in the winter sky above Brooklyn, gentle and friendly, reminding a young man that you can look through any window and see light. Even on the eve of the clash between two sinister empires – the crimson tide (whatever that is) and the burnt orange steers (we know what they are) – the world keeps turning ‘round.
What more could a sporting man want than this bowling season? Dan LeFevour (what a name!) for Central Michigan vs. Levi Brown (what another name!) for Troy battled it out for the glory of the General Motors Acceptance Corp., which we assume is the entity behind the GMAC Bowl in Mobile, Alabama. Did the U.S. taxpayer shell out for the scoreboard and goalposts? We’ll have to look it up. In any event, the to and fro overtime show was worth it. Luckily, we got in with Central Michigan minus two before the spread shifted to minus three. No, we aren’t lucky, we’re infallible.
But of course we are doomed in the end, incapable of securing tomorrow’s newspaper today, however much we continue to seek it, however much we wish to believe it is just beyond the horizon, like turning lead into gold. Believe, we must, though, as the teens begin and the aughts die.
In 2010, we have these resolutions; well, call them expectations:
Abdominal muscles to be six-packed.
Bread to be plentiful.
Cakes to be decorated with sprinkles.
Dads to get Old Spice.
Elin to work on her iron play.
Fun.
Good Lovin’ (saw a band at Turner Falls in Indian Territory that played the heck out of this song)
Help! I need somebody!
Igloos not melting.
Jills with Jacks.
Kraut, of the Sauer type, on franks at the park.
Lemon meringue pie.
Merry gentlemen.
No mercy on the tennis court.
OU beating Texas the second Saturday in October.
Peace on earth, good will toward…
Quilting parties.
Rest for the weary.
Sand wedges that splash with soft aplomb.
Treats for the sweet.
Underdogs covering.
Vivaciousness.
What was I thinking?
Xavier over Fordham Prep next Thanksgiving.
Y’all.
ZZZ’s that make the next day bright.
Oh, and take Alabama and give the four points.
What more could a sporting man want than this bowling season? Dan LeFevour (what a name!) for Central Michigan vs. Levi Brown (what another name!) for Troy battled it out for the glory of the General Motors Acceptance Corp., which we assume is the entity behind the GMAC Bowl in Mobile, Alabama. Did the U.S. taxpayer shell out for the scoreboard and goalposts? We’ll have to look it up. In any event, the to and fro overtime show was worth it. Luckily, we got in with Central Michigan minus two before the spread shifted to minus three. No, we aren’t lucky, we’re infallible.
But of course we are doomed in the end, incapable of securing tomorrow’s newspaper today, however much we continue to seek it, however much we wish to believe it is just beyond the horizon, like turning lead into gold. Believe, we must, though, as the teens begin and the aughts die.
In 2010, we have these resolutions; well, call them expectations:
Abdominal muscles to be six-packed.
Bread to be plentiful.
Cakes to be decorated with sprinkles.
Dads to get Old Spice.
Elin to work on her iron play.
Fun.
Good Lovin’ (saw a band at Turner Falls in Indian Territory that played the heck out of this song)
Help! I need somebody!
Igloos not melting.
Jills with Jacks.
Kraut, of the Sauer type, on franks at the park.
Lemon meringue pie.
Merry gentlemen.
No mercy on the tennis court.
OU beating Texas the second Saturday in October.
Peace on earth, good will toward…
Quilting parties.
Rest for the weary.
Sand wedges that splash with soft aplomb.
Treats for the sweet.
Underdogs covering.
Vivaciousness.
What was I thinking?
Xavier over Fordham Prep next Thanksgiving.
Y’all.
ZZZ’s that make the next day bright.
Oh, and take Alabama and give the four points.
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