There’s nothing good about it. We have reached that point where our prolonged adolescence has run up against the cruel logic of years, sixty of them to be exact.
Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be? Not so, Robert Browning. Your Victorian vanity is as unpersuasive as our new millennium variety. If Beelzebub himself were to pop up this instant and offer to return us to, say, age 25 in return for our immortal soul, we would take the old trickerator up on it without blinking, cloven hooves and all.
As a matter of fact, like most of us we always fancied ourselves a handsome devil, not Johnny Angel; a rake, not Casper Milquetoast; a bon vivant, not Cotton Mather; a jaywalker, not Dudley Doright.
As it turns out, these were only noms de guerre in a battle never sought but always fought, not on some romantic foreign plain, but in a mirror house once a gauzy sustainer of self-deception now become a horrible reflector of the real, the wretched grown-upedness of a man who once could dream himself to a dreamless sleep now spoiled by those unrelenting years.
Oh, the years. A special circle of hell is surely reserved for souls once in thrall to the imagined self. It is a place where knees creak with rust and cry out for WD 40, where pillow cases drenched in drool are hot on both sides, where endless, mocking reels spill laughable visions of glory on tarnished silver screens. We’re ready for our close-up.
Yet within our decrepit cocoon, we hide a kernel of the seed corn we once consumed without a glimmer of the years that would pile up. It is but a memory, something once smelt and tasted.
Above was the roar of the coliseum. Beneath was the sweet smell of expectant autumn, an intoxicating blend of cigar smoke and mustard circulating like a promise in the cavernous catacombs. Then out in the daylight, paper visors our shields. On the cover of the program we held was a young man in shoulder pads, a helmet in one hand and a bottle of Coca-Cola in the other, talking shyly to a blushing cheerleader.
On the walk back through the campus in the fading afternoon, boys in parkas ran to what daylight remained, crashing into shrubs. “I’m open,” each voice cried. We longed to join them but the bus was waiting. “I’m open,” they cried again, more faintly as the evening descended but reverberating through the chill toward the airy heaven, where we suspect they echo still.
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
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.
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!”
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
4.25 Inches
Common Wisdom:
The culture vultures said The Beatles were just a passing fad. Ponderous pundits said the United States wasn’t ready to elect an African-American president. The bully George Amberson Minafer (in Booth Tarkington’s “The Magnificent Ambersons”) believed the automobile would never replace the horse. Economists drunk on algorithms thought the unemployment rate would never hit 10% again. Football minds stuck in play-action and the West Coast offense opined the wildcat formation was a gimmick that top-notch defenses would soon defenestrate.
As it turned out:
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. The audacity of hope. Whoa, Nellie. The Great Recession. The return of the single wing.
Yep, the New York Jets’ defensive genius Rex Ryan was befuddled by the Miami offense, just as Alan Greenspan never saw the housing bubble collapse coming. We have seen the future and it works. Sure, there are no fullback spinners in the Dolphins’ playbook, but the new single wing (aka the wildcat) is here to stay, so you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone.
Inserting rookie Patrick White into the wildcat in the fourth quarter with the game on the line gleamed with confidence. Ricky Williams as the crossing back (fullback in the old single wing) in front of the tailback (Ronnie Brown) puts the rock into the hands of dynamic runners with an extra blocker at the point of attack, the key attribute of the single wing.
It occurs to me that I need a new blocker at my point of attack – aka the closely cut greensward that surrounds a hole 4.25 inches in diameter. A new strategy is required. Use your mentality, face up to reality, Cole Porter told us. Once the weather clears, it’s off to the practice green with wedge and putter in hand. Mastering these sticks, breaking 100 will be a snap. Once I do some push ups, reaching the greensward in two will be possible and breaking 90 will loom.
Of course, this strategy risks using up all the good strokes God originally granted me, but I’m willing to believe He has some greater plan in mind for my golf game. As a friend of mine reminds me, God hates a coward.
Then I’ll be infallible and qualified to assume the papacy when Benedict is gone, though some lobbying of the College of Cardinals may be in order.
Picks this week: Take road favorite Cincinnati and give the 2 ½ points against South Florida tonight (QB Tony Pike will expose the Bulls). Take Oklahoma and 3 ½ points tomorrow against Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas (OK, I’m biased, but with two losses OU has the incentive to play the spoiler). On Sunday, take the Saints and give the 3 points against the Giants (Drew Brees is too good to lose at home).
The culture vultures said The Beatles were just a passing fad. Ponderous pundits said the United States wasn’t ready to elect an African-American president. The bully George Amberson Minafer (in Booth Tarkington’s “The Magnificent Ambersons”) believed the automobile would never replace the horse. Economists drunk on algorithms thought the unemployment rate would never hit 10% again. Football minds stuck in play-action and the West Coast offense opined the wildcat formation was a gimmick that top-notch defenses would soon defenestrate.
As it turned out:
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. The audacity of hope. Whoa, Nellie. The Great Recession. The return of the single wing.
Yep, the New York Jets’ defensive genius Rex Ryan was befuddled by the Miami offense, just as Alan Greenspan never saw the housing bubble collapse coming. We have seen the future and it works. Sure, there are no fullback spinners in the Dolphins’ playbook, but the new single wing (aka the wildcat) is here to stay, so you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone.
Inserting rookie Patrick White into the wildcat in the fourth quarter with the game on the line gleamed with confidence. Ricky Williams as the crossing back (fullback in the old single wing) in front of the tailback (Ronnie Brown) puts the rock into the hands of dynamic runners with an extra blocker at the point of attack, the key attribute of the single wing.
It occurs to me that I need a new blocker at my point of attack – aka the closely cut greensward that surrounds a hole 4.25 inches in diameter. A new strategy is required. Use your mentality, face up to reality, Cole Porter told us. Once the weather clears, it’s off to the practice green with wedge and putter in hand. Mastering these sticks, breaking 100 will be a snap. Once I do some push ups, reaching the greensward in two will be possible and breaking 90 will loom.
Of course, this strategy risks using up all the good strokes God originally granted me, but I’m willing to believe He has some greater plan in mind for my golf game. As a friend of mine reminds me, God hates a coward.
Then I’ll be infallible and qualified to assume the papacy when Benedict is gone, though some lobbying of the College of Cardinals may be in order.
Picks this week: Take road favorite Cincinnati and give the 2 ½ points against South Florida tonight (QB Tony Pike will expose the Bulls). Take Oklahoma and 3 ½ points tomorrow against Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas (OK, I’m biased, but with two losses OU has the incentive to play the spoiler). On Sunday, take the Saints and give the 3 points against the Giants (Drew Brees is too good to lose at home).
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Aristotle
Who has it better than us?
Does it get any richer for the sports fan over the weekend than two girls’ soccer games at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, pennant races, college football drama on Saturday, U.S. Open meltdowns on Sunday and uncomebackable comebacks against the best on Monday, and National Football League all day Sunday and two more on Monday night?
Nope. It’s all good (is that still the au courant saying?).
Mr. Del Porto, guns glistening in his sleeveless blouse in the Queens County September sunlight, somehow dispatched Mr. Federer, whose black sox may have undone him. Superstitious, I know, but these things have consequences. To my detriment on the golf course and elsewhere, I continuously rebel against Aristotle’s admonishment: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
There’s more, though. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. A defensive back makes a remarkable leap to slap an arching pass into the hands of a Denver receiver behind everyone who scoots to the score with seconds remaining.
But is luck, as Aristotle posited, the residue of practice? The defensive back did what he was trained to do and ended up costing his team the game. Should we teach him not to disrupt the play and allow the pass to take its course? Of course not. Can’t do it, as Mike Singletary would say. One must always try.
Does it get any richer for the sports fan over the weekend than two girls’ soccer games at the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, pennant races, college football drama on Saturday, U.S. Open meltdowns on Sunday and uncomebackable comebacks against the best on Monday, and National Football League all day Sunday and two more on Monday night?
Nope. It’s all good (is that still the au courant saying?).
Mr. Del Porto, guns glistening in his sleeveless blouse in the Queens County September sunlight, somehow dispatched Mr. Federer, whose black sox may have undone him. Superstitious, I know, but these things have consequences. To my detriment on the golf course and elsewhere, I continuously rebel against Aristotle’s admonishment: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, therefore, is not an act, but a habit.”
There’s more, though. Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good. A defensive back makes a remarkable leap to slap an arching pass into the hands of a Denver receiver behind everyone who scoots to the score with seconds remaining.
But is luck, as Aristotle posited, the residue of practice? The defensive back did what he was trained to do and ended up costing his team the game. Should we teach him not to disrupt the play and allow the pass to take its course? Of course not. Can’t do it, as Mike Singletary would say. One must always try.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The Hound Hotel
Well, so much for taking the home dogs today. Both home teams won yesterday, and one of them, San Diego, was a dog, even though Peyton Manning didn't get a chance to touch the ball in overtime because of the NFL's ludicrous sudden death rule.
So I figured why not take the home teams on Sunday. As the PhDs on Wall Street say, don't fight the tape. Who would have thought Chad Pennington, on a team that had only 13 turnovers all season, would throw four interceptions. The Dolphins would have been better off going to the wildcat on every play. As for Minnesota, not giving Adrian Peterson the ball at least 40 times a game is the heighth of stupidity.
Obviously, I'm smarter than any NFL coach. If Woody Johnson or some other owner would pay just a hundredth of what will be dished out to the next head man, I could guarantee a Super Bowl. In my first speech to the squad I would demand a daily regimen of steroid smoothies and holding on every snap. Any lineman caught on tape not holding would be traded to a rugby team.
Next weekend, I'm still in the doghouse. The Eagles (+4.5 right now) will cover against the home Giants (Westbrook will find many ways to score), as will the Chargers (+6) against the home Steelers (Sproles and the punter will be co-MVPs), the Ravens (+3) against the home Titans (Flacco is too cool for school) and the Cardinals (+10) against the home Panthers (I can't help it, I love Kurt Warner). OK, it's drawing to a straight flush, but that beats four aces.
I've got to get three out of four to make a profit. The visitors won Sunday didn't they? Don't fight the tape.
So I figured why not take the home teams on Sunday. As the PhDs on Wall Street say, don't fight the tape. Who would have thought Chad Pennington, on a team that had only 13 turnovers all season, would throw four interceptions. The Dolphins would have been better off going to the wildcat on every play. As for Minnesota, not giving Adrian Peterson the ball at least 40 times a game is the heighth of stupidity.
Obviously, I'm smarter than any NFL coach. If Woody Johnson or some other owner would pay just a hundredth of what will be dished out to the next head man, I could guarantee a Super Bowl. In my first speech to the squad I would demand a daily regimen of steroid smoothies and holding on every snap. Any lineman caught on tape not holding would be traded to a rugby team.
Next weekend, I'm still in the doghouse. The Eagles (+4.5 right now) will cover against the home Giants (Westbrook will find many ways to score), as will the Chargers (+6) against the home Steelers (Sproles and the punter will be co-MVPs), the Ravens (+3) against the home Titans (Flacco is too cool for school) and the Cardinals (+10) against the home Panthers (I can't help it, I love Kurt Warner). OK, it's drawing to a straight flush, but that beats four aces.
I've got to get three out of four to make a profit. The visitors won Sunday didn't they? Don't fight the tape.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
As the world turns
Unless you have inside information, stock prices are indeed a random walk. They cannot be predicted by past behavior no matter what the technical analysts may try to tell you. It's like looking at clouds. One man sees a mother bear suckling her cub and another espies Ben Hur in a chariot.
The best clues to future stock prices, in my view, lie in macroeconomic data that set the stage for change -- monetary policy, expected government expenditures, interest rates, inflation expectations. The wildcards are geopolitical events, which no one can predict.
The backdrop of these data, not the dismal 2008, suggest an up year in 2009. Indeed, it has already started in 2008, I believe. After all, every day, not just January 1, marks another 12-month random walk around the sun.
I might have been head-faked by the data. Pessimism could be deep enough to prevent a rebound. I would argue, though, that job losses are already baked into the cake and that the grow or die premise of a dynamic society will prevail. The contemporaneous news, such as employment and home sales, could well be dire, but I think the market already expects that and will be looking beyond.
Buy oil, copper, real estate, heavy machinery (I haven't bought in this sector yet), given the stimulus in the background. Alternative energy names should also be a buy if fossil fuel prices rise.
Granted, it's a forecast no more valid than any other, and I know I've said this before, but I'm looking at it as an investor, not as an extrapolator of yesterday or a judge of sinners today. Please, people, get over Madoff, etc. Yeah, he's bad, but being superior about it doesn't feed the admiral's pussycat.
Which brings me to no tears for all the fired coaches in the NFL, or major college football for that matter. They don't do it for free. None will be missing any meals, and spare me all the "we didn't give them enough time" or "he's a proven winner" nonsense. Sure, they coach because they love the game and want to win, but the amount of dough thrown at them kind of insulates the check signer from giving them the benefit of the doubt.
The final game for the Jets revealed the lack of genius in defensive-oriented guys like Mangini. Offensive-oriented coaches who take advantage of the rules will be winners, I believe. The wildcat formation was the difference for the Dolphins, and that was with weak-sister Chad Pennington! Drop-back, pocket passers are passe, to coin a phrase.
A backfield of Thomas Jones, Leon Washington and, dare I mention him, Michael Vick would hang half a hundred on most NFL "defenses" given blocking rules as they now exist, which virtually permit holding on every play.
Just watch the bowl games this holiday season for a view of the world to come.
Best wishes everyone for a happy and prosperous new year each and every day the earth manages to turn on its axis and orbit the sun.
Update on Kev's portfolio. Don't sue me if you lose your shirt. I'll be shirtless as well.
Ford (F) Sold at $2.15 on 12/24/08, gain of 46.5% booked from purchase at $1.15 on 11/20/08.
Advanced Micro Devices (AMD), bought at $2.19 on 12/15/08, down 1.4% at $2.16 on 12/31/08.
Palm Inc. (PALM), bought at $2.04 on 12/15/08, up 50.5% at $3.07 on 12/31/08.
Developers Diversified Realty (DDR), bought at $4.86 on 12/31/08, up 0.004% at $4.88 on 12/31/08
PowerShares DB Crude Oil Double Long ETN (DXO), bought at $2.24 on 12/29/08, up 13.8% at $2.55 on 12/31/08.
The best clues to future stock prices, in my view, lie in macroeconomic data that set the stage for change -- monetary policy, expected government expenditures, interest rates, inflation expectations. The wildcards are geopolitical events, which no one can predict.
The backdrop of these data, not the dismal 2008, suggest an up year in 2009. Indeed, it has already started in 2008, I believe. After all, every day, not just January 1, marks another 12-month random walk around the sun.
I might have been head-faked by the data. Pessimism could be deep enough to prevent a rebound. I would argue, though, that job losses are already baked into the cake and that the grow or die premise of a dynamic society will prevail. The contemporaneous news, such as employment and home sales, could well be dire, but I think the market already expects that and will be looking beyond.
Buy oil, copper, real estate, heavy machinery (I haven't bought in this sector yet), given the stimulus in the background. Alternative energy names should also be a buy if fossil fuel prices rise.
Granted, it's a forecast no more valid than any other, and I know I've said this before, but I'm looking at it as an investor, not as an extrapolator of yesterday or a judge of sinners today. Please, people, get over Madoff, etc. Yeah, he's bad, but being superior about it doesn't feed the admiral's pussycat.
Which brings me to no tears for all the fired coaches in the NFL, or major college football for that matter. They don't do it for free. None will be missing any meals, and spare me all the "we didn't give them enough time" or "he's a proven winner" nonsense. Sure, they coach because they love the game and want to win, but the amount of dough thrown at them kind of insulates the check signer from giving them the benefit of the doubt.
The final game for the Jets revealed the lack of genius in defensive-oriented guys like Mangini. Offensive-oriented coaches who take advantage of the rules will be winners, I believe. The wildcat formation was the difference for the Dolphins, and that was with weak-sister Chad Pennington! Drop-back, pocket passers are passe, to coin a phrase.
A backfield of Thomas Jones, Leon Washington and, dare I mention him, Michael Vick would hang half a hundred on most NFL "defenses" given blocking rules as they now exist, which virtually permit holding on every play.
Just watch the bowl games this holiday season for a view of the world to come.
Best wishes everyone for a happy and prosperous new year each and every day the earth manages to turn on its axis and orbit the sun.
Update on Kev's portfolio. Don't sue me if you lose your shirt. I'll be shirtless as well.
Ford (F) Sold at $2.15 on 12/24/08, gain of 46.5% booked from purchase at $1.15 on 11/20/08.
Advanced Micro Devices (AMD), bought at $2.19 on 12/15/08, down 1.4% at $2.16 on 12/31/08.
Palm Inc. (PALM), bought at $2.04 on 12/15/08, up 50.5% at $3.07 on 12/31/08.
Developers Diversified Realty (DDR), bought at $4.86 on 12/31/08, up 0.004% at $4.88 on 12/31/08
PowerShares DB Crude Oil Double Long ETN (DXO), bought at $2.24 on 12/29/08, up 13.8% at $2.55 on 12/31/08.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The T-Bone Formation
Taking a break from Miss Market's wiles today. I've been thinking about the evolution or devolution of football.
Is the wildcat formation a throwback or a leap into the future? The direct snap to a multi-talented back who can run the option, throw on the rollout or dash on a keeper before the defense can adjust is employed more and more by colleges and the NFL since Arkansas dreamed it up for Darren McFadden. I'm awaiting the return of the classic single wing and its running game of beautiful fakes and spinning backfields.
Another thought on football. In the years to come I believe more and more teams will attempt the two-point conversion after every touchdown regardless of the score and time left to put maximum pressure on the opponent. If you succeed just 50% of the time you're no worse off than having converted every place kick. Odds are you're successful more than half the time.
The death of Slingin' Sammy Baugh of TCU and Washington Redskins' fame brought to mind a game called the Oil Bowl, a summertime affair played each year in Wichita Falls, Texas, between high school all-stars from Oklahoma and Texas. I covered one such tilt in the early '80s when the Texas coach was Baugh's son, a lean, rawboned ranchhand, the kind of ex-football player rarely seen anymore in the day of 300-pound offensive linemen and 230-pound quarterbacks.
I don't remember the game too well, but I do remember a succulent 16 0z. T-bone, iceberg lettuce salad with French dressing, baked potato wrapped in foil and smothered in butter and sweet iced tea I had at the diner next to my motel for under 10 bucks. It still beats any meal I've spent a paycheck on at a Manhattan hot spot in the years since. I suppose the taste buds vanish with other appetites as the years roll by.
Well, to mangle Rick's line to Ilsa, "We'll always have Wichita Falls."
Is the wildcat formation a throwback or a leap into the future? The direct snap to a multi-talented back who can run the option, throw on the rollout or dash on a keeper before the defense can adjust is employed more and more by colleges and the NFL since Arkansas dreamed it up for Darren McFadden. I'm awaiting the return of the classic single wing and its running game of beautiful fakes and spinning backfields.
Another thought on football. In the years to come I believe more and more teams will attempt the two-point conversion after every touchdown regardless of the score and time left to put maximum pressure on the opponent. If you succeed just 50% of the time you're no worse off than having converted every place kick. Odds are you're successful more than half the time.
The death of Slingin' Sammy Baugh of TCU and Washington Redskins' fame brought to mind a game called the Oil Bowl, a summertime affair played each year in Wichita Falls, Texas, between high school all-stars from Oklahoma and Texas. I covered one such tilt in the early '80s when the Texas coach was Baugh's son, a lean, rawboned ranchhand, the kind of ex-football player rarely seen anymore in the day of 300-pound offensive linemen and 230-pound quarterbacks.
I don't remember the game too well, but I do remember a succulent 16 0z. T-bone, iceberg lettuce salad with French dressing, baked potato wrapped in foil and smothered in butter and sweet iced tea I had at the diner next to my motel for under 10 bucks. It still beats any meal I've spent a paycheck on at a Manhattan hot spot in the years since. I suppose the taste buds vanish with other appetites as the years roll by.
Well, to mangle Rick's line to Ilsa, "We'll always have Wichita Falls."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Crude Instincts
Stop the presses! This just in! Analysts at JPMorgan have lowered their oil price forecast to an average of $43 a barrel for 2009 from $69. Oil prices are falling, they say, due to "the ongoing deterioration in the world economic environment and the ensuing sharp contraction in global oil demand in both 2008 and 2009." (Source: Marketwatch).
What a clairvoyant bunch. We are lowering our forecast, they seem to be saying, because we stuck our heads out the window and saw which way the wind was blowing. We'll change our forecast when we stick our heads outside the window again and notice the wind is blowing the other way. And guess what. They also think voaltility in the oil market will subside once a supply/demand balance is reached. Thanks for the heads up.
For the record, WTI for January delivery fell $3.84 to end at $36.22 on the NYMEX today.
The time to get back into oil and gas names and sell the airlines may be coming soon. Reflating the economy is on the horizon and will probably work down the road. I'm keeping my eyes open, hoping not to be too cut up by the falling knife. I'll let you know when I decide to try and catch it.
Update on Kev's portfolio:
Ford (F) ended today at $2.84, down $0.30 on the day, up 147% since purchase on 11/20/08.
Advanced Micro Devices (AMD) closed at $2.23, down $0.06. on the day, up 1.8% since purchase on 12/15/08 at an intraday price of $2.19.
Palm Inc, (PALM) unchanged on the day at $2.20, up 7.8% since purchase at intraday price of $2.04.
Coming up: thoughts on football (including the return of the single wing, greatest games attended and the death of Slingin' Sammy Baugh and his connection to an ancient high school all-star game many years ago).
What a clairvoyant bunch. We are lowering our forecast, they seem to be saying, because we stuck our heads out the window and saw which way the wind was blowing. We'll change our forecast when we stick our heads outside the window again and notice the wind is blowing the other way. And guess what. They also think voaltility in the oil market will subside once a supply/demand balance is reached. Thanks for the heads up.
For the record, WTI for January delivery fell $3.84 to end at $36.22 on the NYMEX today.
The time to get back into oil and gas names and sell the airlines may be coming soon. Reflating the economy is on the horizon and will probably work down the road. I'm keeping my eyes open, hoping not to be too cut up by the falling knife. I'll let you know when I decide to try and catch it.
Update on Kev's portfolio:
Ford (F) ended today at $2.84, down $0.30 on the day, up 147% since purchase on 11/20/08.
Advanced Micro Devices (AMD) closed at $2.23, down $0.06. on the day, up 1.8% since purchase on 12/15/08 at an intraday price of $2.19.
Palm Inc, (PALM) unchanged on the day at $2.20, up 7.8% since purchase at intraday price of $2.04.
Coming up: thoughts on football (including the return of the single wing, greatest games attended and the death of Slingin' Sammy Baugh and his connection to an ancient high school all-star game many years ago).
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