… 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.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
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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