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?
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Friday, December 24, 2010
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Decades
These are a few of our favorite things when the dog bites and the bee stings:
Mustard on scrambled eggs.
Marlboros, not the generic brand.
Parlays over straight plays (for entertainment purposes only).
Diet coke with a Big Mac and fries to keep our girlish figure.
The Meineke Car Care Bowl.
Directing the placement of the Christmas tree from a perch on the couch.
Christmas Eve shopping with the kids at the South Street Seaport and lunch at Wendy’s.
Paula Creamer’s beautiful swing and pink ball.
Laughing at ourselves when putts for double bogie lip out.
Faithful friends who are dear to us and gather near to us once more.
We are torn, torn we say! when it comes to remembering the last year of the aughts and reminiscing over a decade in this sporting life.
We learned to simulate playing golf, no small feat given our advanced age and lack of cocktail waitresses.
Our children, who advanced far beyond us in scholarship and athletic accomplishment.
Those who endured much with more grace and wit than can be measured.
The hound hotel, which can be a good place to go when the slings and arrows cloud the skies.
David Tyree’s miraculous helmet catch.
OU’s national championship against Florida State.
Boise State’s trickeration win against OU.
Of course, the 2004 Red Sox.
New Year’s resolutions are upcoming (six-pack abs are among them). Have yourself a merry little Christmas. We’ll muddle through somehow.
Mustard on scrambled eggs.
Marlboros, not the generic brand.
Parlays over straight plays (for entertainment purposes only).
Diet coke with a Big Mac and fries to keep our girlish figure.
The Meineke Car Care Bowl.
Directing the placement of the Christmas tree from a perch on the couch.
Christmas Eve shopping with the kids at the South Street Seaport and lunch at Wendy’s.
Paula Creamer’s beautiful swing and pink ball.
Laughing at ourselves when putts for double bogie lip out.
Faithful friends who are dear to us and gather near to us once more.
We are torn, torn we say! when it comes to remembering the last year of the aughts and reminiscing over a decade in this sporting life.
We learned to simulate playing golf, no small feat given our advanced age and lack of cocktail waitresses.
Our children, who advanced far beyond us in scholarship and athletic accomplishment.
Those who endured much with more grace and wit than can be measured.
The hound hotel, which can be a good place to go when the slings and arrows cloud the skies.
David Tyree’s miraculous helmet catch.
OU’s national championship against Florida State.
Boise State’s trickeration win against OU.
Of course, the 2004 Red Sox.
New Year’s resolutions are upcoming (six-pack abs are among them). Have yourself a merry little Christmas. We’ll muddle through somehow.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
I bring you tidings of...
I know it's the season for Pollyanna drivel and I'm as sentimental as the next guy, but soon the Christmas trees will be piled up for shredding and the realization comes that every day marks another 12-month revolution around the sun.
But, as I said, I'm a sentimental soul, and until that joyous moment when I throw the tree on the curb, I'm going to reflect on my blessings. In no particular order: I can read and write, get a haircut, pick up the dry cleaning and, oh yeah, try to get rich (sold Ford this morning at $2.15, locking in a profit of $1.00 after watching it melt down the last two days. Pressure from the Toyota news was too much it turns out and I got scared. Maybe we'll get back in later. I will let you know.).
I'm headed for the South Street Seaport in downtown Manhattan now with my children to last-minute shop for their mother and have lunch at Wendy's. This date and the destinations have been in my Palm for years since we started doing it some 10 years ago (at first with the older one and now with both). It's more fun than it sounds.
Dinner tomorrow? Same as years past: Prime rib (with horseradish on the side), twice-backed potatoes topped with cheddar and green bean casserole. I'm the chef.
Peace on earth, good will toward men. I read that somewhere. It's also in my Palm. Merry Christmas.
Now I've gotta find that Santa Claus tie I bought from a street vendor.
But, as I said, I'm a sentimental soul, and until that joyous moment when I throw the tree on the curb, I'm going to reflect on my blessings. In no particular order: I can read and write, get a haircut, pick up the dry cleaning and, oh yeah, try to get rich (sold Ford this morning at $2.15, locking in a profit of $1.00 after watching it melt down the last two days. Pressure from the Toyota news was too much it turns out and I got scared. Maybe we'll get back in later. I will let you know.).
I'm headed for the South Street Seaport in downtown Manhattan now with my children to last-minute shop for their mother and have lunch at Wendy's. This date and the destinations have been in my Palm for years since we started doing it some 10 years ago (at first with the older one and now with both). It's more fun than it sounds.
Dinner tomorrow? Same as years past: Prime rib (with horseradish on the side), twice-backed potatoes topped with cheddar and green bean casserole. I'm the chef.
Peace on earth, good will toward men. I read that somewhere. It's also in my Palm. Merry Christmas.
Now I've gotta find that Santa Claus tie I bought from a street vendor.
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