Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton can suck it. What the world needs now is a Jimmy Buffett concert and baseball. Drop the keyboard.
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Category Archives: Sports
Post Season Rules
The game of baseball can be taxing. It goes from boring to stand up and hug or high five your phony neighbor in one inning, one home run, or even one strike. During this post season of baseball, some people have asked me if I am rooting for the Cubs or the Dodgers in game six of the National League Championship Series. Simply loving the game, I’m rooting for game seven.
The Retired Helmet
Vin Scully, the now former announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers has passed, figuratively speaking, for the Dodgers and all their fans. Yet, he will still remain alive in everyone’s baseball hearts.
The LA Dodger helmet I wore to bed for years was not only embarrassing to my brothers, it also was a legitimate reason for hazing me. Yet, I bet Vin Scully could have weaved a story with so much eloquence about that silly boy, and it would make it funny as opposed to embarrassing.
Lock Down
I’m not a “We’re all winners!” type of guy.
While watching a baseball game recently, I was asked a complex question regarding coaching. In my former life, I was a coach at every level up through high school. Little League, middle school, high school, you name it. I was a coaching nomad. Some of those years ended with success and others in failure. Other than soccer, I think I coached just about every sport, so I thought I had some credibility while answering the question.
I was asked how a coach should motivate a team with potential but lacking motivation. My response was simple and even a bit primitive. “Sometimes, you just have to scare the Hell out of them. Make them think you’re a little crazy. And, sometimes, depending on your audience, it works.”
Years ago, after an embarrassing loss while coaching a wrestling team with fantastic potential, I wasn’t as much upset about the defeat as I was about how our team responded to the loss. Witnessing one of our best wrestlers making out with his girlfriend in the stands shortly after he was pinned left me more than a little irritated. Shortly after shaking hands with the winning team, I encouraged our team to get into the locker room for a post match lesson.
Recognizing I was in a pretty serious disposition, the room was silent, and I was calm… for the moment. The fear in their eyes was clear, and because I was a bit unpredictable, well, that was precisely how I wanted them to feel. It was then, not saying a word, I, ominously, locked all three of the locker room doors, making sure no one was going to be in the room except them and me. (Crickets.) After a minute of awkward silence, I finally broke the silence, because I hate seeing anyone look as afraid as they did that evening.
“Hey, Matsuda.” He was another one of our best wrestlers delivering a less than adequate performance that afternoon. “Get out of the way.”
Matsuda looked at me with a “What, huh?”. I was probably fifteen feet away from him. “Get out of the way.” His back was to the lockers and he didn’t understand why he needed to get out of the way, so he asked, very politely, looking back and forth to his teammates, and with terror in his eyes, “Where do you want me to go, coach?”
“I’m going to throw this garbage can in your general direction, and since it is full of garbage, I don’t want it to hit you. Get out of the way.”
Matsuda managed to get out of the way, the can exploded against the lockers, spewing refuse everywhere, and before picking up the carnage by myself, I let them know how representative the garbage was in relation to how they performed that afternoon. I’m not necessarily proud of that moment, but we didn’t lose another match for the rest of the year.
The following day, figuring I’d be reprimanded by my administrative Gods or receive some parental concerns, it was quite the contrary. I received one phone call from a parent only praising me for my actions.
Years later, wrestlers entered my classroom recollecting that day and the story blossomed, or perhaps mushroomed, depending on their perspective. Many of those remembering that evening were not members of our team. That always made me laugh.
Emma Can Run
I simply love gambling, and a wise man once told me, “No matter what the odds are, bet on your grand niece.” Actually, the wise man was me after losing a race to my grand niece, Emma. It’s the first time I genuinely didn’t mind losing.
Loving the ponies at an early age, and being subjected to illegal gambling as a six year old apprentice, I loved the names of the horses more than anything else. Money meant nothing to me. Chocolate milk, butterscotch pudding, and a good pizza meant so much more. When my father and some brothers went to the track, while dad studied the race manual we’d find in the garbage can on the way in, I would just look at the names. Anytime a horse had a name affiliated with one of my twelve older siblings, well, that was my two dollar pick.
“Tommy Gan Go” was one of our favorites. He was usually the fastest. Since my closest brother’s name was, and still remains, Tom, it was an easy pick, and usually a winner.
“Mary Can Meltdown” was always a crowd favorite because she would be in the lead for the initial three quarters of the mile, and then begin throwing her horseshoes at people in the stands for not betting on her. This was oddly similar to my sister at her Christmas Eve parties.
“Greg Can Cook” commonly placed. My brother, Greg, is the second best cook I’ve ever met.
“Patricia Can Fly” usually would come in stand by, or fourth, making us no money. Ironically, my sister, Patricia, is a flight attendant, formerly known as a stewardess.
Having so many siblings made it handy to choose my wishful winner, but never did I see a horse with my name included. So, I had to digress to dog racing to pick my favorite name, and bet on it. “Goofy Wizard”. That dog wasn’t always winning, but it’s still running.
Yesterday, after losing a race to my grand niece, if I ever decide to buy a horse and race it, without my wife’s consent, she will be respectfully named, “Emma Can Run”.
Hopeless Football Society
On a very slow day of meaningless college football games last weekend, when weeds outside were calling to be whacked, I had to find some justifiable way of remaining on the couch. A call from a friend made it all possible. He inspired me to write a very poetic blog.
The Whitworth Pillaging Pirates from Spokane, Wa, were traveling to play against the Whittier Poets of “somewhere” in California. It’s appropriate the “Poets” don’t really have a proper place of residence. It’s simply, “somewhere in California”. Lost souls.
Instinctually, I began thinking of Notre Dame and the Fighting Irish, or the Ragin Cajuns from the University of Louisiana, Lafayette. These are somewhat intimidating, if not menacing mascots. Hell, even the Stanford Tree makes the Poets sound withered with fear and desperation. So, I couldn’t help but imagine how CBS’s own Brent Musburger would announce their presence on the grid iron.
“Here come the Depressed and Socially Dysfunctional Poets of Whittier University!”
“And here they are, the Rambling and Blathering Poets of Whittier.”
“Make no mistake, these are the darkest Poets you will ever see on turf.”
“Just about to exit the locker room and enter the modern day gladiator stage will be California’s own, ‘what the f–k is a Haiku?’ Whittier Poets!”
Pre-game prep, also referred to as, “The Emily Dickenson Stretch” requires players to stay, completely secluded, in an attic for days before the game, studying game film, writing sonnets and pondering the difference amongst heaven, hell, purgatory and the possibility of half time. During the game, defenses facing the Poetic offensive diatribe succumb to abject confusion and dilated eyes. The only caveat is whichever team wins, they won’t know it until they are dead. That defines the life and death of a poet.
So, smoke it up, you bards of Somewhere, California. You will never know if you win a National Title, but you will successfully depress people throughout the nation merely by wearing a weird helmet and dimming the stadium lights.
Ok ok ok…
Living in the Pacific Northwest, I have always loved rooting for the Seattle Seahawks. I am not a member of the 12 man society, but I love those who are. They entertain me and inspire me almost as much as a Matthew McConaheeee commercial. In the fourth quarter of today’s game, my wife had given up hope on a Seattle victory, and I tried to give her strength to hold on to her dream of the Hawks winning their opening game. Demoralized beyond the point of husbandry pleasantries, my words were fruitless. She had evaporated into a couch already saturated with Seattle Mariner tears. It was then, when Matthew McCohancahee, during a commercial break, gave her relief at the precise moment she required it. It wasn’t the car he was selling, and it wasn’t the pool he was oddly falling in, making us all question his sanity, and it wasn’t even those eyes….those steel blue eyes placing you in a sauteed mushroom trance. Rather, it was…..well, other than absurdly ridiculous, a wake up call, reminding us that reality can become unreality, and that can become reality. Wow. Our heads were spinning with both excitement and abject confusion.
The following might be true. Then again, it might also be true. Just try and make it false, and that may also be true. (It’s simple Matthew McCognicence 101.)
There was no laughter, only profound admiration and respect for Matthew and his craft. When the commercial came to its epic conclusion, we were subliminally reminded of his greatest line sending him into a wildly successful vortex of celebrity bliss. “Are you lookin at me? Are you lookin at me?” Wait a minute. That’s the wrong line and perhaps a different actor. “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” That’s not the right one either. My fault. I guess it was something a little more relaxed which was what we both needed before giving up on our home team. “Alright, alright, alright…”. Shortly after we properly remembered those words of biblical proportion, the Seahawks pulled off an unlikely victory.
Alright, Alright, Alright.
I love that guy!
Blame it on Rio or NBC?
After close to a week, I am still recovering from an Olympic hangover.
Since 1980, I’ve followed the Olympics, Summer and Winter, with patriotic fervor and genuine interest with war being settled on a mat, track, in a pool, or on some ice. Sports, using that term loosely, I would never commonly pay attention to are witnessed with terrific zeal. A miracle on ice, perfect ten from Mary Lou, and even a bobsled from Jamaica are amongst many of my fond memories.
This year, I was disappointed, mostly due to NBC’s dreadful coverage. Even one of my closest friends stated with hyperbole, that he wanted to kill Bob Costas. “We’ll be right back with the two hundred mile swim medley featuring Michael Phelps” meant nothing to him nor me. Three hours later, we were falling asleep to commercials and snooze worthy stories.
Mind you, I paid attention to the games every night, but found something to complain about either because I compare them to prior Olympic years, or I am getting older and more cantankerous with every hair I lose. Talking to others, I received similar feelings, yet, I must begin with the positive. Both Simones, competing in gymnastics and swimming will be something to behold forever. A girl with the last name of Ledeky must have been swimming using PET’s. (Performance enhancing toes……….they must be webbed.) And, unless a man with the last name of Bolt and Caitlin Jenner have children, I don’t see a faster person entering our world for a long time.
This brings us to Michael Phelps. As magnificent as he is, I simply grew tired of him. Perhaps, I’m just soggy because of the endless amount of events earning him the opportunity to surround his neck with a billion medals. He is the Mr. T of medalists.
After some collective research, many Americans asked why beach volleyball should be on prime time T.V.. I couldn’t definitely answer that. However, I do know this: Females wearing thongs are something I will remember in most of the events including diving, gymnastics, and synchronized swimming. My wife didn’t have to ask why I was watching these events instead of Major League Baseball. She would just look at me, and say, “Really?” I told her I was intrigued with green water and the pommel horse, which doesn’t even exist in women’s gymnastics. She bought that about as quickly as anyone bought, and now have sold, Ryan Lochte and his story.
A Proper Escape
“I enjoy being anyplace where guns aren’t within reach.”
-Author: Unknown (Pretty sure it wasn’t Charlton Heston.)
What can we rely on when our world is in crisis? Where do we collectively join in text embraces when we are sick of political buffoonery or people wielding weapons so haphazardly as a common hammer? When wishing to decompress or even decompose, many choose to seek refuge in our glorious sanctuary of athletic joy. This “season of the sport” couldn’t come at a better time. Put down your weapons for a moment and enjoy the show. We have the Olympics with Michael Phelps and American Vandal, Ryan Lochte. We have College Football and the NFL sneaking around the corner of a baseball pennant race which will lead to a terrific post season. We also have an American and Canadian classic movie, “Slap Shot” on every other channel. For crying out loud, I don’t watch pre-season football, but I love those who find happiness doing so.
I’m tired of bombs, fires, floods and enhanced security at airports. Let’s take a much needed break from terrorism, whether it’s Mother Nature or the guy next door, and focus on these sports, ultimately, making us forget the truth for a bit.
All you other A-holes can read a book.
Does Bow Know Baseball?
Tim Tebow deciding to play Professional Baseball will thrill minor league players for taking their jobs just to fill seats. He will be well loved and embraced by those in the clubhouse barely able to pay their rent in the offseason. For his sake, I hope “his” God teaches him how to hit a 95 mile per hour fast ball which may or may not be directed at his head, or, hopefully, since I am a pacifist, his ribcage.