What’s in a name? Billy Shakespeare said a rose would smell as sweet. We think he was wrong. If we would change our name, it would be to Johnny Vegas. How can you not get a date with a name like the Venezuelan golfer?
We will play Johnny Vegas for a day, apt for Super Bowl Sunday, which pits the Steelers of western Pennsylvania against the publicly owned Packers of Wisconsin. Will shares of the Cheeseheads plummet if they should be undone by the Carnegies? If so, we’re buying. We’re also buying into a Green Bay victory. This way we can’t lose.
Aaron Rodgers, signal caller for the Pack, will flummox LaMarr Woodley, James Harrison and Troy Polamalu. Ben Roethlisberger, counterpart for the Pittsburgh eleven, will be harassed by Clay Matthews, Charles Woodson and B.J. Raji to the point where the substitute center Doug Legursky (another great name) will be wishing he had a high ankle sprain like Maurkice Pouncey. James Starks of the green and gold will outgain Rashard Mendenhall of the black and gold.
Take the Packers and give the 2 ½ points. The total is tougher. At 44 1/2 points, buy a couple and go over. If you’re into props, take Matthews to record the first sack. Also, pick up some guacamole and tortilla chips for nutrition, which you’ll need while battling icy streets and snow banks on your way to the party, whether in Dallas or New York.
Weather won’t be a factor for the gladiators, but for us demanding our bread and circuses we are reminded by our sainted Mother of this ditty dear old Dad used to quote when the winds came sweeping down the plains:
“The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow
And what will poor robin do then, poor thing?
He’ll fly to the barn to keep himself warm
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.”
Poor thing, indeed. Stay warm, my friends, in front of the flat screen hearth.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
How to Succeed on the Sidelines Without Really Trying
While playing touch football in Central Park 21 years ago, when we were lithe and nimble enough to engage in such athletic endeavors, we went up for a pass and came down awkwardly on our right leg and could hear the crunch of meniscus in our knee. We tried to get up and return to the huddle but crumbled to the ground and crawled to the sideline.
Thus ended our effort to change careers. We were looking forward to becoming the first 30-something rookie in the National Football League. When the game was over (think we lost 66-42, first team to 10 touchdowns), a teammate and an adversary helped us to a cab, the driver of which we directed to take us to the emergency room of Lennox Hill Hospital, where but a month later our first-born was to make his debut.
Unlike Mr. Cutler of the Chicago Bears, we could not stand, but then, we are a famous sissy, prone to jumping at loud noises and crossing to the other side of the street when confronted with a fellow walking his pit bull.
Soccer and basketball players are known for taking flops to draw foul calls, yet baseball players are urged not rub it when hit by a pitch. Just jog to first base and glare at the offending pitcher.
Body language, it seems, is all important these days. Who woulda thunk it? Mr. Cutler was tweeted to death for looking disengaged and disinterested after leaving the NFC championship game with a knee injury.
So we have a new business in mind – teaching enthusiastic facial expressions, fist pumps and jaunty stances on the sidelines, in the dugouts and on the benches courtside for injured players with a normally phlegmatic demeanor.
Class would begin with back-slapping, segueing to exhorting teammates with shouts and hand-waving and ending with practice raising arms in the touchdown signal and chest-bumping your replacement. Diplomas will be issued that will certify and indemnify graduates against accusations of sulkiness and not caring.
Meanwhile, we are still cogitating on our Super Bowl pick. Essentially a pick ‘em game with Green Bay a 2 ½ point favorite. The total is 44. We are studying game film, not to discern x’s and o’s, but to check out how a quarterback stands on the sidelines when nicked up. Hopefully he will have graduated from Kev’s Kourse in Karisma and Karing and have the sheepskin in his locker to prove it.
Thus ended our effort to change careers. We were looking forward to becoming the first 30-something rookie in the National Football League. When the game was over (think we lost 66-42, first team to 10 touchdowns), a teammate and an adversary helped us to a cab, the driver of which we directed to take us to the emergency room of Lennox Hill Hospital, where but a month later our first-born was to make his debut.
Unlike Mr. Cutler of the Chicago Bears, we could not stand, but then, we are a famous sissy, prone to jumping at loud noises and crossing to the other side of the street when confronted with a fellow walking his pit bull.
Soccer and basketball players are known for taking flops to draw foul calls, yet baseball players are urged not rub it when hit by a pitch. Just jog to first base and glare at the offending pitcher.
Body language, it seems, is all important these days. Who woulda thunk it? Mr. Cutler was tweeted to death for looking disengaged and disinterested after leaving the NFC championship game with a knee injury.
So we have a new business in mind – teaching enthusiastic facial expressions, fist pumps and jaunty stances on the sidelines, in the dugouts and on the benches courtside for injured players with a normally phlegmatic demeanor.
Class would begin with back-slapping, segueing to exhorting teammates with shouts and hand-waving and ending with practice raising arms in the touchdown signal and chest-bumping your replacement. Diplomas will be issued that will certify and indemnify graduates against accusations of sulkiness and not caring.
Meanwhile, we are still cogitating on our Super Bowl pick. Essentially a pick ‘em game with Green Bay a 2 ½ point favorite. The total is 44. We are studying game film, not to discern x’s and o’s, but to check out how a quarterback stands on the sidelines when nicked up. Hopefully he will have graduated from Kev’s Kourse in Karisma and Karing and have the sheepskin in his locker to prove it.
Monday, January 17, 2011
2011, Baby!
We are unshaven, unbowed and unbroken. Belatedly, we offer our New Year’s resolutions:
Refine our tying of bow ties. Been a little crooked lately.
Pushups every day to keep our girlish figure.
Renew superstitions like wearing our crimson and cream necktie when needing a big win. Can’t use this one too often, because it only has so many victories woven in its silk (made in the USA, though).
Stock up on duct tape to repair snow boots and various other things that go awry.
Write our congressman/woman about sin taxes. A man can’t enjoy indigenous American products such as tobacco without paying a king’s ransom. We will give up our right to bear arms for relief from the health police.
Speaking of sin, resolve to avoid the near occasion of, unless it’s too near to avoid.
Get Eagles and Creedence Clearwater songs out of our head.
Take Northwestern and John Shurna every time. The guy has a hybrid set shot (remember those) and jump shot that hits from the three-point line with uncanny accuracy.
Never cheat on Scarlett Johansson.
Shave every day. The gray is too scary.
Perfect our golfer’s tan.
Not be such a smart-ass.
When picking a football game, do due diligence then go against, kind of like sub-prime mortgage traders.
Many more laps around the sun.
Refine our tying of bow ties. Been a little crooked lately.
Pushups every day to keep our girlish figure.
Renew superstitions like wearing our crimson and cream necktie when needing a big win. Can’t use this one too often, because it only has so many victories woven in its silk (made in the USA, though).
Stock up on duct tape to repair snow boots and various other things that go awry.
Write our congressman/woman about sin taxes. A man can’t enjoy indigenous American products such as tobacco without paying a king’s ransom. We will give up our right to bear arms for relief from the health police.
Speaking of sin, resolve to avoid the near occasion of, unless it’s too near to avoid.
Get Eagles and Creedence Clearwater songs out of our head.
Take Northwestern and John Shurna every time. The guy has a hybrid set shot (remember those) and jump shot that hits from the three-point line with uncanny accuracy.
Never cheat on Scarlett Johansson.
Shave every day. The gray is too scary.
Perfect our golfer’s tan.
Not be such a smart-ass.
When picking a football game, do due diligence then go against, kind of like sub-prime mortgage traders.
Many more laps around the sun.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Had Ourselves...
…a merry little bowl season. We have our new boxers, pajama bottoms, Christmas tree necktie and cashmere scarf made in China. The boxers came just in time because our laundry is in still in the wash and fold place across the street. Can’t get there because of the Feast of St. Stephen storm that makes walking through unshoveled drifts treacherous. And more to come.
But the three kings came bearing gifts. We thought they were for us. But no! Mr. Dyer of the Auburn War Eagles, Plainsmen, Tigers (pick your nickname) rolled off an Oregon tackler without hitting the ground and was told to run by teammates when he thought he was down.
One is never down, though. The sun comes up, and if one steps gingerly through the havoc of city streets filled with trash and snow, stiff arms and spins he can get drop kicked by Jesus through the goalposts of life.
Mr. Bynum, place kicker for the Auburn side, eschewed the drop kick and let someone hold the ball as he executed his skill. We would never want to be a snapper, holder or kicker. Rather, if we were larger, we would be a right guard buried in the pile and far from scrutiny.
When we were a young slender halfback in a T-formation, the coach called what he called a 32-cross, that is, number 3 back through the number 2 hole. Alas, there was no hole and a man playing boys planted us on our rear end.
One is never down and out, though. We have the National Basketball Association (take Clippers against the points every time), the National Football League (take Seahawks to go all the way), NCAA basketball (take St. Mary’s of California against the points every time).
And never punt, always go for two points, always onside kick and never practice putting.
But the three kings came bearing gifts. We thought they were for us. But no! Mr. Dyer of the Auburn War Eagles, Plainsmen, Tigers (pick your nickname) rolled off an Oregon tackler without hitting the ground and was told to run by teammates when he thought he was down.
One is never down, though. The sun comes up, and if one steps gingerly through the havoc of city streets filled with trash and snow, stiff arms and spins he can get drop kicked by Jesus through the goalposts of life.
Mr. Bynum, place kicker for the Auburn side, eschewed the drop kick and let someone hold the ball as he executed his skill. We would never want to be a snapper, holder or kicker. Rather, if we were larger, we would be a right guard buried in the pile and far from scrutiny.
When we were a young slender halfback in a T-formation, the coach called what he called a 32-cross, that is, number 3 back through the number 2 hole. Alas, there was no hole and a man playing boys planted us on our rear end.
One is never down and out, though. We have the National Basketball Association (take Clippers against the points every time), the National Football League (take Seahawks to go all the way), NCAA basketball (take St. Mary’s of California against the points every time).
And never punt, always go for two points, always onside kick and never practice putting.
Friday, December 24, 2010
O Holy Night
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?
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?
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.
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