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.
Showing posts with label Super Bowl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Super Bowl. Show all posts
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.
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.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Grassy Knoll
As Ricky Ricardo would say, "NFL, you got some 'splainin' to do."
Watching the game with my daughter, who was pulling for the Steelers just to rile me, I was indifferent to whether Pittsburgh scored or if Arizona miraculously came back in the last 35 seconds. I was just hoping Warner didn't throw a pick six in the waning moments and deep six my bet on the Cardinals and the points.
But the last play wasn't even reviewed by the referee. Apparently, the replay official in the booth said there was no need to. Was it a fumble or a forward pass? Surely there was enough evidence to take the time to look at it. I remarked, wait they're going to have to look at this a while. The next time I looked up from my nachos, Roethlisberger was taking a knee and the game was over.
The poor Cardinals had no dog in this hunt. Can you imagine the back pages if it had happened to the Giants or Jets?
Or consider this. Can you imagine the outcry from gamblers if the Cardinals were down by seven (the spread was seven or six and a half, depending on who you bet with) and they didn't get a second shot with a jump ball in the end zone with Larry Fitzgerald?
Now it may very well have been a fumble, but it appeared to me the doubt was such that even Arizona's linemen weren't scampering after the loose ball.
There has to be another explanation. Somebody in the booth had one too many at the ESPN party or didn't want to delay the post-game love fest. Less controversial plays are the subject of eight-minute looks by the replay guys in a game between nondescript losers in the middle of the season.
No, the NFL flubbed it and won't admit it.
Nevertheless, I must crow (Hah!). Warner's passing yardage fell within 102 yards of my prediction. Fitzgerald did score two touchdowns. The 14-point swing with the thug Harrison's 100-yard interception return skewered my score prediction. A prescient friend warned that a turnover touchdown would tip the scales. And, alas, Roethlisberger did flummox me with his continued expanding pocket saves. And was Santonio Holmes' right foot on top of his left and not on the ground? It's always something.
Watching the game with my daughter, who was pulling for the Steelers just to rile me, I was indifferent to whether Pittsburgh scored or if Arizona miraculously came back in the last 35 seconds. I was just hoping Warner didn't throw a pick six in the waning moments and deep six my bet on the Cardinals and the points.
But the last play wasn't even reviewed by the referee. Apparently, the replay official in the booth said there was no need to. Was it a fumble or a forward pass? Surely there was enough evidence to take the time to look at it. I remarked, wait they're going to have to look at this a while. The next time I looked up from my nachos, Roethlisberger was taking a knee and the game was over.
The poor Cardinals had no dog in this hunt. Can you imagine the back pages if it had happened to the Giants or Jets?
Or consider this. Can you imagine the outcry from gamblers if the Cardinals were down by seven (the spread was seven or six and a half, depending on who you bet with) and they didn't get a second shot with a jump ball in the end zone with Larry Fitzgerald?
Now it may very well have been a fumble, but it appeared to me the doubt was such that even Arizona's linemen weren't scampering after the loose ball.
There has to be another explanation. Somebody in the booth had one too many at the ESPN party or didn't want to delay the post-game love fest. Less controversial plays are the subject of eight-minute looks by the replay guys in a game between nondescript losers in the middle of the season.
No, the NFL flubbed it and won't admit it.
Nevertheless, I must crow (Hah!). Warner's passing yardage fell within 102 yards of my prediction. Fitzgerald did score two touchdowns. The 14-point swing with the thug Harrison's 100-yard interception return skewered my score prediction. A prescient friend warned that a turnover touchdown would tip the scales. And, alas, Roethlisberger did flummox me with his continued expanding pocket saves. And was Santonio Holmes' right foot on top of his left and not on the ground? It's always something.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Veni, Vidi, Vici
Defense wins championships, right? Nonsense. Quick counts (and please, Arizona, mix in the no-huddle offense) will prevail tomorrow in Super Bowl XLIII and counter Pittsburgh's stealthy pash rushing schemes.
Edgerrin James will average IV yards a carry; this is the key to keeping Troy Polamolu and Ryan Clark honest. Kurt Warner will throw for CCLXXV yards and IV touchdowns. Larry Fitzgerald will catch II of them.
The Cardinals will steal a possession with a turnover and turn it into points. Ben Roethlisberger has been too lucky with the "extended pocket" miracle heaves that got cheap scores in the Steelers' playoff run. They won't happen Sunday. Cardinals will win outright XXXV-XXIV and put to rest the dominant defense myth.
Take Arizona and the points (VII last time I looked, but VI 1/2 on other venues) and the over (XLVII).
Happy Roman numeral day!
Edgerrin James will average IV yards a carry; this is the key to keeping Troy Polamolu and Ryan Clark honest. Kurt Warner will throw for CCLXXV yards and IV touchdowns. Larry Fitzgerald will catch II of them.
The Cardinals will steal a possession with a turnover and turn it into points. Ben Roethlisberger has been too lucky with the "extended pocket" miracle heaves that got cheap scores in the Steelers' playoff run. They won't happen Sunday. Cardinals will win outright XXXV-XXIV and put to rest the dominant defense myth.
Take Arizona and the points (VII last time I looked, but VI 1/2 on other venues) and the over (XLVII).
Happy Roman numeral day!
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