Category Archives: Sports

Opening Dismay

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Other than Pearl Harbor and poor driving skills, I have nothing against the Japanese.  I have everything against a team in Seattle, Washington, located in America for having baseball’s opening day in anywhere but America. The Seattle Mariners are playing the first game of the season in Japan.  This is America’s official pastime, but it seems to me, for the team I root for, since I reside in the city, it is America’s official posthumous time.  The first game of the season is usually the first and last for our fairly ridiculous sport crazed city.

I don’t give a crap what people say about the NFL, NBA, soccer and any other sport, baseball is America’s favorite pastime. (Disclaimer: I love each one with the exception of the NBA and soccer.) Opening day is special, and it belongs to baseball.   It doesn’t belong in Japan where I have to set my alarm clock for three AM, instead of the usual three PM schedule.  This is truly unholy on one of the most holiest of days.  My wife will have to hit the seventh inning snooze button when the Mariners, with severe jet lag, are losing in that inning, just around seven AM.

The official owner of the Mariners lives in and is from Japan.  Qualified sources have informed me he won’t be attending the game.  I think he is an elderly owner, but I don’t give a shit if someone has to bring him into his luxury box seat by way of a forklift while he’s collecting money on a pallet selling Ichiro jerseys.  He should be in attendance.

This may sound a bit moronic and immature, but I celebrate this day much like people celebrate Christmas and Easter.  I celebrate the Lord’s birth and His resurrection, but I really don’t look forward to the presents or the eggs……unless they are deviled.  Baseball’s opening day?  That’s what I look forward to, but not in Japan at three in the morning.

I hope you all have a great opening day.  I won’t.  Hot dogs and beer don’t fare well with my stomach that early.

 

Madness (one step beyond my room)

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This is an exciting day.  It’s not just because College Basketball March Madness is one hour from starting.  It’s because I’ve convinced my wife that this day is so important.  I don’t have to work today.  Merely strolling out of our bedroom at 5 o’clock a.m. , feeding the cats and dogs, making her pancakes, replacing lightbulbs, AND doing dog and cat poop patrol is the only way to justify sitting on my butt watching the great games of college basketball.  When I pick up poop, it is madness.  Therefore, I deserve a reward.  Reward:  Lazy guy watching basketball.

Sadly, I have no money on any of these teams, but I am rooting for friends who do.  It really isn’t about the four dollars we toss in at the office for a twenty dollar payout, is it?  It should be about loving a sport and forgetting about the office and money for a few days.

March Madness is a great opportunity to bond with people.  At my former place of employment, we were forced to endure “team building retreats”, though we would have been better off just having a staff basketball pool.  Having to deal with office morale getaways from heaven made me want to descend directly to Hell.  You know, the ones where people want to gather, hold hands, and discover the essence of teamwork.  Just thinking about that made me excuse myself to the bathroom to vomit.  I don’t want to trust someone at some camp who catches me when I’m falling.  I want to be watching and betting on a game.  If every boss in this country would encourage gambling during this short stretch of days, morale would be uplifted to heavenly measures.  Employees would be happy…..therefore, those employees would work more diligently at the office for their employer after the madness ends.

I’m not encouraging gambling.  Most of the time, gambling is miserable.  Having something to root for is fun.  I lost a bet last night rooting for my friend, Tim.  It didn’t work out.  I missed out on his office March Madness pool because I waited two years to call him until I needed him.  Tim is a great man, and a good friend, but, ultimately, we have to bet on ourselves.  Ourselves are the ones we can truly count on.

Embrace the madness.

Twas the SuperBowl

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Twas the night before the SuperBowl, and all through the house, all creatures were snoring because they were soused.  The bottles were scattered by the chimney with despair, in hopes that St. Gambler soon would be there.

The people all passed out were snug on the floor, while prophetic visions of money pranced upon them once more.  And one dog in a ‘kerchief’ and another dog in my lap, had just settled our betting brains down, knowing soon they would get a proper betting slap.

When out on the deck, there arose such a clatter, no one could stand up to acknowledge what was the matter.  Somehow, someone managed to stagger to the window quite unclear, only in hopes to cure the hangover with a beer.

This person could not see quite clear, but he could hear a voice coming from near.

“On Tom, On Greg, On Patrick and Craig.  On Mr. Russell, oh, why must I beg?”

The voice came from a mysterious soul.  Or, it could have came from just some random A-hole.

Those beckoned were gamblers waiting for the sun to rise, but inevitably, we all knew we’d hear their cries.  The cries would begin with Madonna’s half time beating, but the cries would continue with no proper living room seating.

Most of these friendly gamblers in the room were betting on a man named Brady.  There was another stranger in the room who looked a bit shady.  This man was taking their bets with a nod, and most were certain he was just a fraud.  There were others betting on someone named Manning.  This ensured the stranger that his wife could afford tanning.

There were chips, chops and dip, a chicken wing or fifty, but to describe what happens next, can delicately be described as not nifty.

Those friendly gamblers would eventually lose all their money.  This didn’t place them at great odds with their honey.  Remotes were tossed aimlessly with no care, several gamblers fell on the floor just pulling their hair.

The stranger left with a pile of cash, and he was the only one who didn’t need it stashed. He strolled back to his house with this satchel of dough, presented it to his wife, whose name happened to be Flo.  Of course, with that name, clearly she worked at a diner, and with that money, life would certainly get finer.  Yet, although realizing that money is not the root of evil, sometimes the “love” of money makes you act like a weasel.  This is precisely why this woman named Flo, could feel in her head her brain starting to grow.  She decided to proclaim with great clarity, “I think I’ll give this satchel of cash to a worthy charity.”

Her husband understood (sort of), and slowly exited the room, threw a few F bombs and picked up a broom.  He knew that was the only way he could honestly make money, and that was just perfectly fine with his honey.

Be wise, my gambling friends, on this day.

Have a fun day thinking about the SuperBowl at church this Sunday.  And although his wife, Gazelle, wishes for you to pray for him, I believe Tom Brady has enough of everything.   Rooting, I believe, should be kept separate from praying.

 

 

Gamblogging and Guilt

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(This may only make sense to people dumb enough to gamble)

Guilty of many items, I’ll start with a few.  I am guilty of stealing whisky from a brother.  I am guilty of stealing lines and being influenced by wonderful movies such as Paint Your Wagon, The Cowboys, and Jaws.  I’ve counted the ways to cheat at cards.  I’ve been guilty of surviving Saturday drunkenness and Sunday sloth.  Forgive me.

Those are my confessions for this morning, but as I read the Bible Dictionary of Sinning, I     see that gambling is indeed on the list of mistakes leading us into a place so fondly known as Hell.  Hell is sitting at a Blackjack table waiting for the devil to give you a twenty, only to witness Satan deliver himself five small cards adding up to twenty one.  Lucifer also has four younger brothers sitting at the table taking all the face cards, thus keeping your chances of winning at a minimum.  It’s a lose lose deal, much like betting on the Super Bowl.

The Patriots are favored over the New York Giants by a few points and a kicker this year. That’s precisely why I won’t bet on either team.  It’s that half point, known as “the hook”, or a half player, known as the “kicker” always screwing up your gamble.  This is one of many reasons I no longer gamble.  The “hook” is how Vegas always steals your dough.  If one million drunks bet on the Giants, and one million vagrants bet on the Patriots, Vegas collects ten percent either way.  A person named Vegas wins, and an earthling eventually loses.

Gambling is very similar to writing.  If only fifty percent of the reading population enjoys someone’s writing style, the writer still wins, because the writer collects the juice, even after being demoralized for ten seconds receiving horrible reviews.  Let’s look at this from a baseball stance.  If you are successful five out of ten times, you are not only in the Hall of Fame, you will be Hall of Famous for ever, even if you strike out those other five at bats.

The immoral to this ridiculous banter is as follows:  Be the Bookie, or the Writer…..not the Gambler or the Editor.

If you do gamble, bet on yourself, not a team or a dealer you have no control over.  Unless, of course, you are betting a friend or brother a steak dinner over a football game. In that case, you all win.

 

 

Brady Who?

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Who is this Tom Brady Character, and why was God hugging him after last night’s game against the Broncos?  The only two things I know about this Brady guy is that girls think he is super good looking, and he admits to being a non Virgin.

Tebow finally got laid last night.

THEE END………..Thank God

Theology of Sports

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Alright, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this subject because it is becoming as boring and intriguing as Charlie Sheen.  Charlie Sheen isn’t winning.  Tim Tebow is.  Who is this God he’s praying to and where can I rotary dial his number?  Other than finding me a wonderful bride, He hasn’t answered a Hell of a lot of my phone calls.  I should learn how to text Him.

You know who is losing?  Me.  I’ve lost more money than I have ever made betting against that guy.  Crud.  Now, I find myself rooting for him, somehow believing in a different God or Jesus I still haven’t met yet.  I don’t even know what his denomination is, but it seems to be working.  Thinking it may be Seventh Day Adventist, I gave up pork one day.  That didn’t work.  I prayed for my wife and I to not have an argument on that day.  We did, and it was about chewing gum with your mouth open.  I gave up on that religion.  I then moved on to the Mormon belief seeking some form of salvation.  So, it seemed appropriate to give up drinking for that day.  Didn’t work.  My wife and I had another argument about UPS Vs. Fed Ex.  These were important discussions.

In my youth, I learned about this crazy religion  known as Catholicism.  This required you to attend church on Sundays.  It also allowed you to drink, fight, swear, and then feel sorry about what you did last week, thus making everything A OK.   It seemed the perfect match for me.

However, believing in this religion, I also questioned it.  I didn’t enjoy singing, so I would ask why I was forced to sing the Lord’s Prayer during the service, rather than reciting it with conviction.  Not receiving a valid answer, I just annoyed fellow parishioners with my God Awful voice.

As a boy loving football, I prayed for three items on Sunday.  And, I’m being serious.  I prayed for those less fortunate, I prayed for my family, and I prayed so desperately for the Priest to keep the sermon short so I could make it home to watch the Seahawks, or the Bears at 10 o’clock that morning, because I HAD to watch every second of those games while my dad was making waffles.  The Seahawks and the Bears made me question my faith.  The waffles were so good, it made me think, “Maybe there is a God”.

Continuing my faith in the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, I placed myself in an awkward situation during a baseball game.  I was facing a left handed pitcher in college who threw upwards of nine thousand miles per hour according to my plastic helmet and slow bat speed.  Fearing for my health, and not wishing to embarrass myself in front of girls who dig ballplayers, I stepped out of the batter’s box, and gave myself the sign of the cross.  The umpire said and did something very memorable that day.  He stopped the game and asked me to step out of the batter’s box.  This was unusual, but, since I knew this man, I sort of sensed what was going to come out of his mouth, other than “Strike Three!”  He said, “Did you just make the sign of the cross in the middle of a game”.  I said, “yeah”.  He replied, “God ain’t whatchin this game…..He’s got better things to do”.  I proceeded to strike out, but went on to have a terrific season praying for others, and my head instead of a base hit.

Whatever Tim Tebow is doing seems to be working, and I wish him the best, unless I am betting against him……..and evidently someone from above who is taking a break from disease and catastrophe to watch that remarkable man win games on Sunday, well, I wish him or her the best as well.  Hell, He or She can watch the game with me, as long as they like chicken wings.  I’ll even buy.  It will be my moment of tithing.

Roll Tithing,

Ben

Monday Night Football and Hank Williams Jr.

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For those of you who live your lives for Monday Night Football, this should be your singing anthem for this evening’s mess between the Seattle Seahawks and the St. Louis Rams.

If Hank Williams Jr. hadn’t been removed from singing the Monday Night jingle, it may have begun like this.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME SHITBALL?!!!!……  A Monday night snoozer!  This is Fired Randall Hank….. How do I get myself started (again)?

Ok, to educate those who don’t care about football or Hank Williams Jr., I will do my best to inform you that, although a wonderful entertainer, he is a notorious ass-face.  I’m not poking fun at his face, it’s just one of my terms for referring to one as an asshole.  He used to sing the Monday Night Football Party Anthem each Monday before, in another drunken page of his life, deciding to talk about politics on National T.V., as well as flirt with the female interviewing him.  Let this be noted.  I’m not throwing Hank under the Cross Country Bus, and I refuse to spit Beachnut in that dude’s eye.  I listened to and loved his music for years. However, no one in America, other than some southern fools, really care about his political stance. Hank, stick to music.  You’re good at it.  Stick to drinking.  You’re exceptional at it.  Politics, stay away unless you wish to be parodied on Saturday Night Live.

I know this is old news to many regarding the firing of Hank Williams Junior High. But, I thought since the Seattle Seahawks are playing the other High School team known as the St. Louis Rams tonight, perhaps ESPN, or whomever is broadcasting the show should bring back another less than exciting celebrity.  For Pacific Northwest Fans, it will again be a SEA of mediocrity.

Sadly, and embarrassingly, my brother, Tom, our friend, Mike, and his then spectacular wife attended a Hank Williams concert at a venue known as Unplayfair.  It was a horse race track in our hometown of Spokane, Washington.  After purchasing concert tickets and multiple Hank Jr. musical tapes for several years (I didn’t know what a CD was at that time), we were all excited to witness one of the country western singing greats.

No strangers to booze, we all partook in some adult beverages before the concert. So did Hank.  We were told by music authorities he may be a little tardy for the concert.  There was no opening act, and we ran out of money for libations.  Therefore, we were a bit agitated.  Two hours later, with bellies full of beer and empty wallets, Hank arrived.  He didn’t have a shirt on, and the hair on his chest did not outnumber the shots he had taken before arriving.  He played songs we either had not heard of, or were simply stolen from whatever band wrote “Sweet Home Alabama”.  I don’t remember much, other than a fight breaking out amongst fans who were clearly drunk and disoriented, and a guitar solo lasting  longer than the lifespan of a redneck wood tree.  I would have preferred watching that tree grow.

Enjoy the game tonight, or get to cooking dinner and talking to someone special.  Or, burn a Hank Jr. CD.  You can interpret that anyway you wish.

Heisman Upsets (friendly sibling rivalries)

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There is a person in my family who owes me 100 fake dollars on a bet he lost.  I haven’t heard from him since we made the fake bet.  That was 20 some odd hours ago.  You may be thinking, “What in the hell is a fake bet”?   Actually, it’s merely a friendly bet.  Since betting is illegal in certain areas, and neither of us have ever crossed the law, we often make wagers in a magical world filled with Monopoly money and Leprechauns. We are also quite competitive, so actual forms of currency don’t apply.  We just want to win.  The phone call conceding  the bet is sufficient.  It makes one of us sleep well at night knowing the older or younger brother has lost confidence.  That’s invaluable in any relationship:  making ones you love lose confidence.

Allow me to provide a lesson regarding gambling.  Using words and phrases such as, “Guarantee”, “Lock”, or “Stone Cold Lock” usually result in you being in the backseat of the gambling God of cars.  Sometimes, you may find yourself  in the trunk.   I know, I’ve been there many times, figuratively.  This family member has placed me there many times, but yesterday’s Heisman bet was certainly a guarantee for my brother.  He sealed his destiny with some of his statements, and lost, and Luck certainly wasn’t in his corner.

Be careful what you “guarantee”.  Most importantly, bet on yourself.  That’s the only only one you can truly count on……other than cards.

Ben

PGS: (post gambling syndrome)  If one of my siblings has any contact with a man named M. Thew, tell him this is dedicated to him.  Also, tell him to help me get the bookies off my tarnished bottom.

Mediocrity

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Mediocrity should be placed in the Hall of Fame of Embarrassing Words.  We all know what four letter words are, but shouldn’t a nine letter word such as “mediocrity” share those four letter words’ fame?  I believe it should, much like I believe Pete Rose should be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Pete Rose may have been a mediocre gambler, but he was an outstanding competitor.

Mediocre  shouldn’t be in the Hall of Fame of Words.  I only write this because I have been mediocre at so many things.  I am man enough to acknowledge this. I was a mediocre baseball player.  I was a mediocre football player.  I was a mediocre student. I was also a mediocre teacher and coach on certain days.  To receive a C grade in class allows you not to fail.  But really, other than graduating from High School or college, do you wish to place that C average on your resume?  We place so much greatness in mediocrity.  Let me make this simple.  When I was mediocre at anything, I was pissed off at the world.  Since I’m still mediocre and pissed about everything ( other than my wife and my life), and including not playing in the big leagues,  I wish to congratulate the Seattle Mariners, the Seattle Seahawks, and the Washington Huskies for accepting mediocrity.

Failing is ok.  Accepting it is not.  It doesn’t mean you have to throw tantrums and beat your  head on the floor.  It means you must do everything possible, on every play, or in every inning to WIN.  My coaching and teaching friend, Russ, and I presented a speech each year regarding losing.   We took it out of a Bible Verse.  It’s the Book According to Steve.  “Losing is for Losers!!”.  Somehow, this wise man is still living.  How many other Bible members are still living these days?  I only know of one.

I am happily married to a woman.  Loving her and respecting her is absolutely essential for our success.  It’s quite easy.  She is far more bright than I shall ever be, but when I speak of winning, and she speaks of sympathy, I know where the pants should be placed.  I have no fun losing at Scrabble to her.  She has no fun losing at Monopoly to me.  Many of my friends and relatives despise losing at Cribbage to me.  Losing is simply NO FUN.

For all those fabulous mothers out in space, it’s ok for your son or daughter to lose.  A hand can be raised for the winner and you don’t have to scream obscenities or become upset.   You just have to tell them to beat the Holy Hell out of them the next time they meet.

Games are fun. Losing isn’t.