To borrow and amend a phrase from the movie Old School: “Sports. It’s a motherfucker, huh?” The actual phrase begins with the word “love” but it’s amazing how easy it is to substitute the word “sports” for “love.” It probably shouldn’t be like that, but for some of us, it is.
Jayson Werth just hit a walkoff. It gave me chill bumps. Don’t even care about that game.
Here is a text convo I had with a friend of mine minutes after the Reds were eliminated. This friend of mine is not a Reds fan but he knows. He knows.
Friend: Sorry dude.
Me: ☺ look how happy I am. I’m fine.
Friend: Damn that’s happy.
Me: Told ya.
Me: Ow well. This is not a real life problem.
[I was really just trying to convince myself that I was ok]
Friend: It’s not a real life problem you’re right. But it’s also something that you’ve followed for multiple hours each day for 5 months. That’s probably more time than you’ve spent on some real life things. It’s ok to be sad.
Me: Ok, I’m definitely sad.
Ahh, he totally gets it. So much time we put in to following our favorite teams. It really only has a happy ending for one franchise, but we follow anyway. Why? I don’t know. We love a city (Blue Jackets). We love our parents who, for some reason, love a certain team (Buckeyes). We have fleeting memories of a grandparent who was always listening to the Reds when we went to their house (Reds, clearly). You know, it all starts with stuff like that.
These teams entertain us but they can’t help but hurt us. Only one team can be the ultimate champion. But for any competitor, and you are probably somewhat competitive if you care enough to watch sports, the losses take you lower than the wins get you high. That’s what’s really cruel. We’re addicted to sports; needing the next high, knowing the low will be exponentially worse.
The Reds are eliminated. I feel terrible. I know it shouldn’t be this big of a deal to me. It is.
It hurts right now but this was my favorite Reds team I can remember. Dominant pitching. This is how a ton of games went this season: Reds get lead. Reds keep lead. Reds win. The bullpen was amazing. Our defense was magnificent. Watching Joey Votto hit baseballs is an honor. Hearing Todd Frazier walk up to the plate with Frank Sinatra playing had me laughing the entire season. But for now, we cross that season off the list and hope we’re around long enough to see another great season. And maybe one season, everything clicks and we get to see our team at the pinnacle. Just once. Ask any Cubs fan, it’s not a right.
Many years growing up, the reds sat around 72-90 seasons. It’s a dull pain that festers every night, but we know our team sucks and you learn to deal with it. When you’re team is good and the season comes to an abrupt stop in the playoffs, it’s like you get all of that dull pain heaped on you at once. It kind of makes you feel like The Giver, if you ever had to read that book in 8th grade. It’s rough and it can make you forget all the good things your team accomplished throughout the season.
Reds
I can’t help but think of the next time I’ll get to see my Reds. Here are some things I really want to see.
1. Aroldis Chapman starting. Aroldis closing games was definitely one of the things that made this team my favorite, but closers just aren’t that valuable. David Weather was an effective closer for the Reds. David Weathers. Unless you’re going to strike everyone out, which Chapman totally can, so much of closing just comes down to chance. Is that a groundball right to Scott Rolen for an out or is it five feet to his left for a base hit? Now, you only need two more of those to tie the game (from an offensive standpoint) or win the game (from a defensive standpoint). What was Aroldis in save opportunities in the Postseason? 0-0. The Reds had no save opportunities. Not cool to leave your best arm in the dugout waiting for something that doesn’t come. Aroldis (and any reliever who can handle the workload of being a starter) would be much more valuable as a starter. Starters who stay healthy pitch over 200 innings a year. How many innings to relievers throw? I don’t know, but it’s a lot less. I’d rather have my best pitchers trying to get the most outs. Also, if you’re a person who thinks the 9th inning is the most important inning, if Team A scores 4 runs in the 1st inning and doesn’t score the rest of the game and, meanwhile, Team B doesn’t score until the 9th, where they score 3 runs; who just won the game? It wasn’t the team who won the 9th inning.
2. I’d like to see a new CF along with Todd Frazier in the lineup. More specifically, I’d like to see Todd batting 4th. Drew Stubbs has not made the progression you’d hope to see from any young Big Leaguer, in fact, without looking at his numbers, I’d say he’s probably regressed this season. I could put up with his strikeouts in seasons past because he always had goofy power, but he lost the power this season. I just don’t think someone who plays a really good defensive CF is all that valuable.
I’m hoping Todd Frazier will improve upon a great rookie campaign but I’m not sure I’d bet on it. Todd has a pretty serious hitch in his swing, which was exposed late in the season. Hopefully that hitch doesn’t actually exist; I’m no scout. I want Todd batting fourth next season because I don’t think Ludwick is good. Ludwick hit a lot of bombs this year and I was surprised at every single one of them. I’ve never seen a player hit so many homers and be late on every fastball above 91mph for an entire season. I believe he had a somewhat flukey 2012 and will be exposed a lot more in 2013. Actually, I changed my mind. My ideal lineup for next season would go: Phillips, Votto, Frazier, Bruce. I guess I’d have Frazier 3rd, but that’s not even worth hoping for. No manager would put Votto 2nd.
3. A New Manager. I don’t hate Dusty. I’ve certainly been critical of his decisions on twitter but I don’t hate him. I think Dusty is a leader of men, which is admirable, but he’s not a wonderful baseball tactician. He’s a “player’s manager.” I don’t know what that means. Nobody can quantify how that helps your team win. It’s especially difficult in baseball because, more than any of the other big four sports, baseball is robotic. Someone throws the ball at you and you react by swinging or not swinging. In the field, someone hits the ball near you and you sprint to catch it. I doubt Jay Bruce ever went deep because he’s so happy about becoming good friends with Zack Cozart because Dusty has a clubhouse that really nurtures that kind of thing. I don’t believe the manager has a huge effect on the final W/L total of a team but I do think Dusty makes really bad decisions from time to time. Is it really that difficult to find a player’s manager who also makes smart baseball decisions? I don’t know, but we’ll probably find out next season.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Zeb, Ray and Forrest go to Marshall's
I don’t know how it really happened, but at some point, Marshall’s became our bar of choice. The “our” I referred to is comprised of Ray, Forrest and myself; Zeb. The three of us met on the campus of The Ohio State University in the fall of 2004 and built a strong friendship. So, as we wrapped up our respective academic careers and found big-boy jobs (not Frisch’s Big Boy) in the Columbus area, it made sense for us to find an apartment together. We settled in Grandview, a small suburb closer than any other suburb to downtown Columbus and also only a couple miles from campus.
The further removed we became from our time at college, the less we found it necessary to visit bars on campus and eventually, we began scouting out the local bar scene because it’s just easier, logistically. We had all been to Marshall’s prior to living in Grandview, but really grew to love the place after we located ourselves more closely to it. Also, their Happy Hour lasts until 9:00pm (domestics for $1.75), which was the main attraction. I know I said last paragraph that I wasn’t sure how Marshall’s came to be our bar of choice. I now remember: it’s because of the Happy Hour thing. Ray works from home, so I always send him the feeler-text first.
“sup?”
“? U?” Ray said, always quick to respond.
“Marshall’s?”
“yep. Forrest in?”
“dunno. Ask him when he gets home.” Forrest usually returned from work about a half hour before myself, so I thought they’d have time to sort everything out.
“Hurry up. I wanna get some beer.” Ray texted.
“LET’S GET SOME BEER!!!!!” I like to text in frat-guy-talk from time to time.
Alas, my workweek ended mercifully, on time and I’m released to navigate highway heroes (people who think driving one-mph-under to four-mph-over the speed limit merits third-lane usage) and construction-induced traffic on 670 before entering our third-story apartment.
“ZEBBY!!!!!!” Both roommates harmonize.
“RAYIEEE!!!! FORRESTY!!!!!! LET’S GET SOME BEER!!!!!!!!!” I reestablished my text.
Another inside joke between the three of us is how excited we always act before going to Marshall’s. I mean, we like Marshall’s but we also know, when we go to Marshall’s, the three of us will sit at one table, drink a handful of beers, come back to our apartment around 11pm and watch a movie on HBO On Demand while we nod off one-by-one. I guess it’s probably not a great joke if I feel the need to explain it, but the point is it’s not exactly the kind of event that would require several exclamation points, spoken or texted.
We enter Marshall’s, pass the indoor pond consisting of oversized goldfish (that’s not a metaphor or anything) and find our table at the other side of the middle room (Marshall’s contains three rooms on one story).
A pretty waitress greets us and takes our drink orders. It’s three Bud Lights. She asks if we need menus but Ray and Forrest have already eaten and I know I want the Reuben.
“No, I think we’re okay on menus, but can I get the Reuben?” See? I told ya.
A couple minutes later the waitress returns with our Bud Light and the three of us settle into what would normally be a pretty forgettable night.
“How was work, you guys? Did you really enjoy driving to and from work today?” Ray asked.
“It was pretty nice. Did you enjoy sitting in our apartment all day, yet again?” Forrest said.
“I did. I really did.”
“Do you ever worry that working from home might retard your social skills?” I said.
“Retard?” Forrest and Ray said.
“Yeah, like to slow down the or regress your social skills?” I said.
“Well, I don’t use the word ‘retard’ in conversations yet, so I think my social skills are still okay,” Ray said.
“Well done.” Forrest said.
“Touche.” I admitted being bested.
Our waitress made her way back to our table. “You guys ready for another round?” she asked. We each gave our own version of “yes” and she left to retrieve the booze. We took the opportunity to down the remainder of our first drinks. She dropped off round two and away she went to check on other tables.
“That waitress always looks really good by the time we leave.” I said
“She looks pretty good when we get here, too, Zebby.” Ray said.
“That’s a fair point.”
“Are we gonna do this thing where we start talking about which bartenders may or may not be out of our league again?” Forrest said.
“Should we? I think we should.” Ray said.
“I don’t think we should. It retards my confidence.” Forrest said.
“It’s a fun conversation.” Ray said.
“That’s a great word.” I said.
“What are we doing this weekend? Go home tonight and watch a movie. Wake up tomorrow and sit there until we sit here and then go home and watch a movie. Wake up on Sunday and watch TV until we watch a movie and then go to bed and wake up for work in the morning?” Forrest said.
“That sounds sweet. I’m in.” I raised my hand in order to offer Forrest the opportunity of a super-douchy high-five. He refused.
“Seriously. We should do something.”
“What do you want to do, sweetheart?” Ray said.
“I was thinking about this: We all watch so much TV. Let’s just make a short film. Like five minutes, or something.”
“For what. Who would see it?” I said.
“We would see it. It could be fun. It’s not like we’d be doing anything less productive with our time if we tried this.” Forrest said.
“I gotta admit, 12 seconds ago I was very skeptical about this idea. I’m in. Let’s do it.” I said.
“I agree. This will be fun.” Ray said. “So, what’s it gonna be about.”
“That’s a good question. Maybe we could plan that out tomorrow and Sunday and maybe try to have a script by next weekend.” Forrest said.
“Yeah, but while we’re here talking, let’s get the creative juices flowing.” I said.
“Does anyone have a camera?” I asked.
“I have an iPhone.” Ray shrugged.
“Oh, this project is practically filming itself.” I said.
The waitress returned. Based on how long that last conversation would have taken, we realistically drank that beer very quickly.
“Another round?”
“Yes. We’re hatching a serious idea right now and it’s definitely gonna take a few more brews.” Ray said.
“What’s this idea?” the waitress asked.
The three of us exchanged quick glances and telepathically agreed that to anyone besides the three of us, the idea would probably sound extremely lame.
“It’s top secret. We’re only allowed to say that we’re hatching an idea right now. We can’t get into any of the deets.” I said.
“Okay, I’ll be right back with your beers.” She said and walked away.
“Our bartender is out of your league, Zebby.” Ray said.
“Shit. The actual idea we’re ‘hatching’ is less losery than what you told her. Did you both have to say the word ‘hatching’?” Forrest said.
“At least Zebby didn’t say ‘retard’ again.”
“Guys. It’s not like I’m using it in a derogatory way… it’s not offensive.”
“Still probably in poor taste.” Forrest said.
“Fine, I’ll stop saying retard.” I said. “So, what should this thing be about?”
“I don’t know. Let’s make it about nothing. That’s what Seinfeld did.” Forrest said.
“Yeah, from episode to episode it was about nothing. You still need a plot for a singular episode. You couldn’t just film us watching TV for five minutes. Or could you? That would be about nothing.” Ray said.
“Well, where do we want to film this?” I said.
“Might as well not worry about that until we decide what it’s gonna be about.” Forrest said.
“That’s the thing. Maybe an idea of where we want the thing to take place will elicit an idea for the story. Like, if we wanted it to be filmed here, it would be about me not talking to girls. If we wanted it to take place at a carnival, it could be about Ray throwing up on a ferris wheel.” I said.
“Hmm. That’s a good point.” Forrest said, rubbing his lips with his thumb and forefinger. “I like where we’re at. We’re off to a good start. What a great idea by me, Forrest.”
The further removed we became from our time at college, the less we found it necessary to visit bars on campus and eventually, we began scouting out the local bar scene because it’s just easier, logistically. We had all been to Marshall’s prior to living in Grandview, but really grew to love the place after we located ourselves more closely to it. Also, their Happy Hour lasts until 9:00pm (domestics for $1.75), which was the main attraction. I know I said last paragraph that I wasn’t sure how Marshall’s came to be our bar of choice. I now remember: it’s because of the Happy Hour thing. Ray works from home, so I always send him the feeler-text first.
“sup?”
“? U?” Ray said, always quick to respond.
“Marshall’s?”
“yep. Forrest in?”
“dunno. Ask him when he gets home.” Forrest usually returned from work about a half hour before myself, so I thought they’d have time to sort everything out.
“Hurry up. I wanna get some beer.” Ray texted.
“LET’S GET SOME BEER!!!!!” I like to text in frat-guy-talk from time to time.
Alas, my workweek ended mercifully, on time and I’m released to navigate highway heroes (people who think driving one-mph-under to four-mph-over the speed limit merits third-lane usage) and construction-induced traffic on 670 before entering our third-story apartment.
“ZEBBY!!!!!!” Both roommates harmonize.
“RAYIEEE!!!! FORRESTY!!!!!! LET’S GET SOME BEER!!!!!!!!!” I reestablished my text.
Another inside joke between the three of us is how excited we always act before going to Marshall’s. I mean, we like Marshall’s but we also know, when we go to Marshall’s, the three of us will sit at one table, drink a handful of beers, come back to our apartment around 11pm and watch a movie on HBO On Demand while we nod off one-by-one. I guess it’s probably not a great joke if I feel the need to explain it, but the point is it’s not exactly the kind of event that would require several exclamation points, spoken or texted.
We enter Marshall’s, pass the indoor pond consisting of oversized goldfish (that’s not a metaphor or anything) and find our table at the other side of the middle room (Marshall’s contains three rooms on one story).
A pretty waitress greets us and takes our drink orders. It’s three Bud Lights. She asks if we need menus but Ray and Forrest have already eaten and I know I want the Reuben.
“No, I think we’re okay on menus, but can I get the Reuben?” See? I told ya.
A couple minutes later the waitress returns with our Bud Light and the three of us settle into what would normally be a pretty forgettable night.
“How was work, you guys? Did you really enjoy driving to and from work today?” Ray asked.
“It was pretty nice. Did you enjoy sitting in our apartment all day, yet again?” Forrest said.
“I did. I really did.”
“Do you ever worry that working from home might retard your social skills?” I said.
“Retard?” Forrest and Ray said.
“Yeah, like to slow down the or regress your social skills?” I said.
“Well, I don’t use the word ‘retard’ in conversations yet, so I think my social skills are still okay,” Ray said.
“Well done.” Forrest said.
“Touche.” I admitted being bested.
Our waitress made her way back to our table. “You guys ready for another round?” she asked. We each gave our own version of “yes” and she left to retrieve the booze. We took the opportunity to down the remainder of our first drinks. She dropped off round two and away she went to check on other tables.
“That waitress always looks really good by the time we leave.” I said
“She looks pretty good when we get here, too, Zebby.” Ray said.
“That’s a fair point.”
“Are we gonna do this thing where we start talking about which bartenders may or may not be out of our league again?” Forrest said.
“Should we? I think we should.” Ray said.
“I don’t think we should. It retards my confidence.” Forrest said.
“It’s a fun conversation.” Ray said.
“That’s a great word.” I said.
“What are we doing this weekend? Go home tonight and watch a movie. Wake up tomorrow and sit there until we sit here and then go home and watch a movie. Wake up on Sunday and watch TV until we watch a movie and then go to bed and wake up for work in the morning?” Forrest said.
“That sounds sweet. I’m in.” I raised my hand in order to offer Forrest the opportunity of a super-douchy high-five. He refused.
“Seriously. We should do something.”
“What do you want to do, sweetheart?” Ray said.
“I was thinking about this: We all watch so much TV. Let’s just make a short film. Like five minutes, or something.”
“For what. Who would see it?” I said.
“We would see it. It could be fun. It’s not like we’d be doing anything less productive with our time if we tried this.” Forrest said.
“I gotta admit, 12 seconds ago I was very skeptical about this idea. I’m in. Let’s do it.” I said.
“I agree. This will be fun.” Ray said. “So, what’s it gonna be about.”
“That’s a good question. Maybe we could plan that out tomorrow and Sunday and maybe try to have a script by next weekend.” Forrest said.
“Yeah, but while we’re here talking, let’s get the creative juices flowing.” I said.
“Does anyone have a camera?” I asked.
“I have an iPhone.” Ray shrugged.
“Oh, this project is practically filming itself.” I said.
The waitress returned. Based on how long that last conversation would have taken, we realistically drank that beer very quickly.
“Another round?”
“Yes. We’re hatching a serious idea right now and it’s definitely gonna take a few more brews.” Ray said.
“What’s this idea?” the waitress asked.
The three of us exchanged quick glances and telepathically agreed that to anyone besides the three of us, the idea would probably sound extremely lame.
“It’s top secret. We’re only allowed to say that we’re hatching an idea right now. We can’t get into any of the deets.” I said.
“Okay, I’ll be right back with your beers.” She said and walked away.
“Our bartender is out of your league, Zebby.” Ray said.
“Shit. The actual idea we’re ‘hatching’ is less losery than what you told her. Did you both have to say the word ‘hatching’?” Forrest said.
“At least Zebby didn’t say ‘retard’ again.”
“Guys. It’s not like I’m using it in a derogatory way… it’s not offensive.”
“Still probably in poor taste.” Forrest said.
“Fine, I’ll stop saying retard.” I said. “So, what should this thing be about?”
“I don’t know. Let’s make it about nothing. That’s what Seinfeld did.” Forrest said.
“Yeah, from episode to episode it was about nothing. You still need a plot for a singular episode. You couldn’t just film us watching TV for five minutes. Or could you? That would be about nothing.” Ray said.
“Well, where do we want to film this?” I said.
“Might as well not worry about that until we decide what it’s gonna be about.” Forrest said.
“That’s the thing. Maybe an idea of where we want the thing to take place will elicit an idea for the story. Like, if we wanted it to be filmed here, it would be about me not talking to girls. If we wanted it to take place at a carnival, it could be about Ray throwing up on a ferris wheel.” I said.
“Hmm. That’s a good point.” Forrest said, rubbing his lips with his thumb and forefinger. “I like where we’re at. We’re off to a good start. What a great idea by me, Forrest.”
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Reviewing a book. Because what's even more boring than actually reading a book? Reading about someone else who's talking about reading a book.
Several years ago I wrote a blog where I pointed out what everyone was thinking: I am the unofficial blog champion of anyone who has ever attended The Ohio State University. By that point, I had amassed, what seems to be a laughable total now, of 1500 hits but to someone who isn’t effortlessly unbelievable at absolutely everything, it would have been quite an accomplishment. Obviously, I couldn’t have cared less. Now, you may remember back then, there was a real nice up-and-comer in the blogging game by the name of Mark Titus. He was on the OSU basketball team and I guess a few people enjoyed his work. Was he anywhere near my level? Haha, hilarious question, me. But he was trying, and it was adorable nonetheless.
Clearly (I hope), I’m joshing. Basically, a couple years ago, I would mention Mark Titus in my blog and tweet it to him and see if he would acknowledge it. I know it was pathetic then. Well, guess what, it’s still pathetic now and I’m doing it again! A couple things I know about myself is that when I become famous I’m going to be one of the most vain muhfuckaz on the planet and that I will read everything anybody will ever write about me just as an extension of the first part. Since I reasonably assume every human being is exactly like me, that means Mark Titus has read my blog on several occasions. And that feels good.
The real reason I brought you here today is so I could type about a wonderfully hilarious and unique book. Don't Put Me In, Coach by Mark Titus is a swell read. Yes, I want to plug the book from my old foe, in an attempt to ‘bury the hatchet’. And, Mark, if I ever run into you at the bar, I will gladly buy you ‘four boilermakers’. As I have not previously mentioned, I recently reached the 5100 hit mark, so based on that kind of traffic, I’m guessing I just sold you at least 0-2 extra copies. Please, don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal. I’m happy to do it. On a side note: you really don't make that much money on advertising if you get 5100 hits in four years. Weird, I know.
Titus has no regard for his own privacy (as well as others) and makes the fear of embarrassing himself his bitch. He has the stones to broach any topic in this tell-all. He breezes through ever-polarizing subjects such as diarrhea, forced voyeurism with respect to sodomy and Richard Simmons's Vagina. He's able to do this with such eloquence, such grace, that one can't be sure he isn't describing the Westminster Dog Show or a high class Garden Party. (Is there another kind of garden party?) I really like the structure of this book. It is 257 pages and its font isn't challenging. It's designed perfectly for the average person who doesn't read a ton, but decided to give this book a whirl because it promises to generate insightful and hilarious stories. It does. Chapter length probably averages around six pages, which also helps novice readers like you and I plough through. "Meh, I think I'll quit reading right here tonight. Well, the next chapter is only three pages..." Thirty minutes later you've ready about thirty more pages. Personally, I read 10 pages the night I bought the book and finished it in two sittings the following two days. Really easy to get through. I don't want to give too much of it away, but I will say that it is about exactly what you'd expect if you've read his blogs. It's hilarious. I do believe the book is more vulgar, which I would have encouraged if I had been consulted but, alas, I wasn’t. Also, I found the stories of Thad Matta and some of his teammates I remember watching particularly enjoyable. Personally, as a Buckeye fan, the insight one gains about Thad Matta is worth the purchase price of the book by itself. You understand why he’s such a good recruiter, because he sounds like a dude you’d like to hang out with. Uhhh, again, it's really funny. Umm, how do you end something like this?
Basically, if you’ve had the inkling to read the book but you're not sure you wanna pony up the dough, just fucking do it.
Last week Mark wrote an awesome piece on Greg Oden. If you're a ding dong and aren't going to buy his book, at least read this.
Clearly (I hope), I’m joshing. Basically, a couple years ago, I would mention Mark Titus in my blog and tweet it to him and see if he would acknowledge it. I know it was pathetic then. Well, guess what, it’s still pathetic now and I’m doing it again! A couple things I know about myself is that when I become famous I’m going to be one of the most vain muhfuckaz on the planet and that I will read everything anybody will ever write about me just as an extension of the first part. Since I reasonably assume every human being is exactly like me, that means Mark Titus has read my blog on several occasions. And that feels good.
The real reason I brought you here today is so I could type about a wonderfully hilarious and unique book. Don't Put Me In, Coach by Mark Titus is a swell read. Yes, I want to plug the book from my old foe, in an attempt to ‘bury the hatchet’. And, Mark, if I ever run into you at the bar, I will gladly buy you ‘four boilermakers’. As I have not previously mentioned, I recently reached the 5100 hit mark, so based on that kind of traffic, I’m guessing I just sold you at least 0-2 extra copies. Please, don’t worry about it. It’s not that big a deal. I’m happy to do it. On a side note: you really don't make that much money on advertising if you get 5100 hits in four years. Weird, I know.
Titus has no regard for his own privacy (as well as others) and makes the fear of embarrassing himself his bitch. He has the stones to broach any topic in this tell-all. He breezes through ever-polarizing subjects such as diarrhea, forced voyeurism with respect to sodomy and Richard Simmons's Vagina. He's able to do this with such eloquence, such grace, that one can't be sure he isn't describing the Westminster Dog Show or a high class Garden Party. (Is there another kind of garden party?) I really like the structure of this book. It is 257 pages and its font isn't challenging. It's designed perfectly for the average person who doesn't read a ton, but decided to give this book a whirl because it promises to generate insightful and hilarious stories. It does. Chapter length probably averages around six pages, which also helps novice readers like you and I plough through. "Meh, I think I'll quit reading right here tonight. Well, the next chapter is only three pages..." Thirty minutes later you've ready about thirty more pages. Personally, I read 10 pages the night I bought the book and finished it in two sittings the following two days. Really easy to get through. I don't want to give too much of it away, but I will say that it is about exactly what you'd expect if you've read his blogs. It's hilarious. I do believe the book is more vulgar, which I would have encouraged if I had been consulted but, alas, I wasn’t. Also, I found the stories of Thad Matta and some of his teammates I remember watching particularly enjoyable. Personally, as a Buckeye fan, the insight one gains about Thad Matta is worth the purchase price of the book by itself. You understand why he’s such a good recruiter, because he sounds like a dude you’d like to hang out with. Uhhh, again, it's really funny. Umm, how do you end something like this?
Basically, if you’ve had the inkling to read the book but you're not sure you wanna pony up the dough, just fucking do it.
Last week Mark wrote an awesome piece on Greg Oden. If you're a ding dong and aren't going to buy his book, at least read this.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
The Cranberries
Sorry, I cannot figure out how to create paragraphs in this new blogger format. It keeps running all my paragraphs into one. Classic Blogger Boobie trap.
I had a dream last night. I dreamt I had spent the last seven seasons falling in love with the NHL’s worst and most embarrassing franchise. To be fair, it is likely that the worst and most embarrassing franchise would, in fact, be the same franchise.
I always assumed when people said they were living their dream, that it was a good thing. But now I know, “living your dream” is equal to being repetitively kicked in the beanbag by a little kid with very pointy shoes.
You see, last Friday I was at the smooth new shady bar behind my apartment, which should be located in the arena district but was plopped right on Watermark’s collective lap. As I listened to the soulful beats of Juvenile’s Back that Azz up, for the second night in a row at the place, and watched Mark-Andre Fleury and Bryzgalov for the Pens and Flyers, respectively forget everything they knew about goaltending, I reached a critical point. And that point I’m referring to is when I’ve had the perfect amount of beers where I inevitably think the same two thoughts: ‘These bartenders are stunningly gorgeous’ and ‘I should just move to Chicago’.
The strange thing was the next two thoughts, which usually don’t accompany the previous two: ‘How sweet would it be if the Blue Jackets were playing in this game? They could be playing two miles down the road in the playoffs! (of course, then I wouldn’t be at the bar two miles away, I’d be in fucking Nationwide Arena.)’ followed immediately by, ‘yeah right, that could never happen’. Sometimes I think inside parenthesis.
And that’s the real tragedy about how the Columbus Blue Jackets have been able to alter my thinking, because the Pens and Flyers aren’t currently playing in the Stanley Cup Finals. No, they’re in the first round of the playoffs. “Well, is it like baseball,” you ask “where only eight of the 30 teams make the playoffs?” (that number is expanding to 10 this season.)
“No, it’s not!” I would scream at you. “16 teams make the goddamn playoffs. Out of 30! Over fucking half of them and it still seems IMPOSSIBLE that we could ever make the playoffs. That’s how amazingly dreadful this organization is.” Boy, you really pissed me off. Then I would apologize.
“I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for allowing myself to be a die hard Blow Jackets Fan. I’m mad at the organization, but you’re great.”
53.33% of teams make the playoffs every year and I’m so confident the CBJ are at least five years from being part of that top 53.33%. And even though I inexplicably want to move to Chicago when I get tipsy, when I wake up the next morning I always think, ‘but I do love Columbus’. Unfortunately, I cannot be proud of my team. They are embarrassing.
I didn’t reached the point, you know, the point where you want to write your annual blog post, until Wednesday. I was perusing recent facebook updates on my super high tech blackberry to see the Official Columbus Blue Jackets most recent post: “FILL IN THE BLANK: Our biggest TEAM NEED for next season is ___________!”
First off, stop yelling that shit at me. Sweet use of the caps lock, bro. Now, I saw this post almost immediately and believed my CBJ brethren would follow my lead with more condescending and sarcastic responses, but unfortunately, most people kept it pretty civil. Mine actually wasn’t that bad either, but this is what I wrote up there: “Biggest need? I don’t know. I can’t think of anything. I’m pretty happy where we are.” Yeah, it wasn’t too bad, but it definitely wasn’t constructive! How does that taste, official CBJ facebook page?!!?!?!?
But that question posed by the CBJ really torked me right off. Why would you ask that? I just got over the fact that I realized the previous Friday we could never make the playoffs even though 53.33% of the league does every year. They just had to rub it in. To me, the question the CBJ posted is the exact same thing as this, “okay, dudes. Y’all know we were by far the worst team in the NHL last year, right? Management is looking for something, anything to make this club better, but they can only do ONE THING. What should they do, because they are fucking clueless.”
Is this how management gets its ideas? Asking the fans on Facebook what they would do? Another thing, why are you making me relive last season? Here is another version of the same question: “okay, dudes. Think back on how terrible we were last season. Surely, you’ve come up with dozens of memories in merely seconds. Okay, out of all the facets of the game where we were just god-awful, what were we the most god-awful at?”
Don’t make me relive that shit! I reached the breaking point. Remember in A Christmas Story when Ralphie finally has had enough from that yellow-eyed bully and beats the shit out of him, while letting out a string of profanities even though his mother was present? I felt like that. I wonder what happened to that kid. Looks like I need to take a momentary pause to do some wikipediaing.
Did you know Peter Billingsley and his four siblings all had acting careers when they were young? Well, I guess that pretty much ties up all the loose ends.
See ya in 2013!
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