Unconscious Jon Diebler undid us the other day. The young Buckeye poured in threes as easily as teddy bears nestle with toddlers snoring in their beds. It was sleepwalking against the Wisconsin Badgers. Who needed stalwart Jared Sullinger inside when beyond the arc was the comfort zone for the Ohio State University?
As earthly mammals, we all seek comfort even as we strive to overcome our fellow mammal, each of whom is born live with fur and warm blood and the drive to overcome his or her brethren. Winning requires comfort, a condition that requires the ability of holding two opposing ideas in the mind and still function, a daunting task that makes this sporting life fraught with tension.
Want to bet on West Texas Intermediate crude going to $150 a barrel? There is another mammal who would take your action and relish in your loss. How about Ford Motor Co. breaching $20 a share this year? Plenty of short-sellers who’ll go the other way.
We attended our first boxing match the other night, watching young men in blue and gold (for entertainment purposes only) and managed to escape without blood on our jacket, which we considered a victory. A delicious slice of lemon meringue pie and a cup of coffee topped the evening off, and we mused that competition makes liars of us all. Martha Stewart wasn’t convicted of insider trading, but lying to the U.S. government about it.
We had a class long ago in Hawthorne and Melville, during which, in a discussion of the latter’s “The Confidence Man,” a young man of tender sensibilities actually broke down crying, exclaiming that no one can be trusted and the professor had to go to his side and pat him on the back. We chuckled at the time, but now we wonder if he wasn’t right to despair. Comfort zones are just that -- zones. When the world is turned upside down and we see it for what it is, all the bromides, sweater vests of coaches and protestations of integrity disintegrate.
Now, we are no saint, but Jim Tressel, the pigskin coach of the Ohio State University, keeps trying to be one. C’mon man. There is no comfort zone for a phony unless he wins.
“There ain't nothin' more powerful than the odor of mendacity...You can smell it.” (Tennessee Williams, Cat on Hot tin Roof).
Meanwhile, expect the Crimson and Cream of Cleveland County Indian Territory to cover against the Bears of Waco and the Johnnies of Queens County to cover against the Scarlet Knights of New Brunswick.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Brooks and Brooklyns too Broad for Leaping
The world grows tiresome, yet rejuvenated. Young people texting while walking into traffic are a pestilence, but nevertheless endearing as they bustle about in their skinny and baggy jeans. One of them will be the POTUS someday, even if he or she can’t tell you what speech “four score and seven years” came from.
This is the reason we have children. Hope is always abundant with the young prancing, romancing and advancing among us. See! They’ve even made us a rapper. Do they still call it that?
The decline in athletic skills is a melancholy spectacle. Johnny Unitas at San Diego, Willie Mays at New York, Joe Namath at Los Angeles. They stayed too long at the fair.
Even Duke Snider, correct us if we’re wrong, the leader in home runs and RBIs in the 1950’s, attempted to prolong his career after he left the Dodgers. One of the “Boys of Summer” in Roger Kahn’s sparkling phrase, died yesterday. To Brooklynites of a certain age, among whom we count the southern hillbillies like us who have adopted the borough, the passing of Snider tears another page from the book of this sporting life. Will the next POTUS be able to name the center fielder of the Dodgers in their glory years of domination of the National League?
Never mind. They have Pujols, Cabrera, Crawford, Mauer to hold on to. We refer them, however, to A.E. Housman:
WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
This is the reason we have children. Hope is always abundant with the young prancing, romancing and advancing among us. See! They’ve even made us a rapper. Do they still call it that?
The decline in athletic skills is a melancholy spectacle. Johnny Unitas at San Diego, Willie Mays at New York, Joe Namath at Los Angeles. They stayed too long at the fair.
Even Duke Snider, correct us if we’re wrong, the leader in home runs and RBIs in the 1950’s, attempted to prolong his career after he left the Dodgers. One of the “Boys of Summer” in Roger Kahn’s sparkling phrase, died yesterday. To Brooklynites of a certain age, among whom we count the southern hillbillies like us who have adopted the borough, the passing of Snider tears another page from the book of this sporting life. Will the next POTUS be able to name the center fielder of the Dodgers in their glory years of domination of the National League?
Never mind. They have Pujols, Cabrera, Crawford, Mauer to hold on to. We refer them, however, to A.E. Housman:
WITH rue my heart is laden
For golden friends I had,
For many a rose-lipt maiden
And many a lightfoot lad.
By brooks too broad for leaping
The lightfoot boys are laid;
The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Talkin' 'Bout My Generation
So we said to ourselves, “Selves, c’mon, man, give it up.” The torch must be passed.
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.
Confession: Despite being Papists, we’ve always preferred the King James version of the word of God.
All is vanity, baby. The aging A-Rods, Derek Jeters Kevin Garnetts and Johnny Vegas’s of the world will not miss any meals, but must bow to inevitable decline. Sure, supermodels, caviar and BMWs will be aplenty, but the ball game abideth. We believe there are folks with canes who wear hog hats in Fayetteville and hairy men in pink Red Sox hats and tank tops singing “Sweet Caroline” in Boston. The long suffering, while tuning in WGN, asked for tissues when the Cubs tanked in 1969. The young boy elated by pinstriper Scott Brosius’s home run in Game 5 cried inconsolable tears when a bloop single handed the 2001 series to Arizona in Game 7.
There is a Game 7 out there for all of us, even guys like us too dim to realize it until we approach those final innings. But hope springs eternal. Pitchers and catchers unlimbered in Florida and Arizona recently (a mystery: why not corner outfielders and utility infielders first?). And now we hear that Bernard Madoff has lost weight. He should write a diet book titled “Build a Ponzi Scheme, Always shoot 3 over Par Somehow and Go to Prison.”
The New York Metropolitans baseball club, owned by beneficiaries of Mr. Madoff’s ledger main, is now apparently searching for someone to take Babe Ruth off their hands so they can produce “No, No, Nanette.”
C’mon, men (the Wilpons, that is). Time to give it up. Sell the team and settle your debt to Mr. Madoff’s losers. The Metropolitans are losers, too, so what’s the beef?
Which brings us to our beloved Cardinals. Given the economic events of the last few years, it’s surprising that Albert Pujols thinks he can rule the elements, as a dear friend of ours says. The St. Louis club can win without him when he’s 41.
We just turned 25 last year, though we find some that dispute this. Retail sales were up less than expected last month and inventories were up. Expect the stock market to drop and utility infielders to demand a few million less.
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose.
Confession: Despite being Papists, we’ve always preferred the King James version of the word of God.
All is vanity, baby. The aging A-Rods, Derek Jeters Kevin Garnetts and Johnny Vegas’s of the world will not miss any meals, but must bow to inevitable decline. Sure, supermodels, caviar and BMWs will be aplenty, but the ball game abideth. We believe there are folks with canes who wear hog hats in Fayetteville and hairy men in pink Red Sox hats and tank tops singing “Sweet Caroline” in Boston. The long suffering, while tuning in WGN, asked for tissues when the Cubs tanked in 1969. The young boy elated by pinstriper Scott Brosius’s home run in Game 5 cried inconsolable tears when a bloop single handed the 2001 series to Arizona in Game 7.
There is a Game 7 out there for all of us, even guys like us too dim to realize it until we approach those final innings. But hope springs eternal. Pitchers and catchers unlimbered in Florida and Arizona recently (a mystery: why not corner outfielders and utility infielders first?). And now we hear that Bernard Madoff has lost weight. He should write a diet book titled “Build a Ponzi Scheme, Always shoot 3 over Par Somehow and Go to Prison.”
The New York Metropolitans baseball club, owned by beneficiaries of Mr. Madoff’s ledger main, is now apparently searching for someone to take Babe Ruth off their hands so they can produce “No, No, Nanette.”
C’mon, men (the Wilpons, that is). Time to give it up. Sell the team and settle your debt to Mr. Madoff’s losers. The Metropolitans are losers, too, so what’s the beef?
Which brings us to our beloved Cardinals. Given the economic events of the last few years, it’s surprising that Albert Pujols thinks he can rule the elements, as a dear friend of ours says. The St. Louis club can win without him when he’s 41.
We just turned 25 last year, though we find some that dispute this. Retail sales were up less than expected last month and inventories were up. Expect the stock market to drop and utility infielders to demand a few million less.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bread and Circuses XLV
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.
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.
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.
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