From True/Slant on December 1, 2009:
Charlie Weis, Job Applicant.
Charlie Weis is a busy guy, what with getting fired and cleaning out his office and setting up a new paypal account to receive all those large payments from the Notre Dame Athletic Department and all. Through a fluke of modern technology, I’ve been able to tap into some of coach Weis’ voluminous correspondence over the past 48 hours. Here are some of the choicest bits:
To: God@NFLPatriots.net
Dear Bill,
It’s been a long time and I know with your grueling work habits and legendary tunnel vision and all, you may not be aware that I’m looking for a job. We had a good run together, remember? Ah, the glory days we had with Super Bowls and video parties. Not to mention wing night every night. Gosh, I get teared up just thinking about the good times.
Just think, Bill, we could get back there. Imagine what I could do pulling the strings with Brady and now Moss? Perhaps with me back on board, we could win some more Super Bowls again, huh? I don’t even need to be paid much, because Notre Dame has to pay me for another six years. Please, Bill.
Charlie
Reply To: BigmaninSouthBend@AOL.com
Sorry, Charlie. Maybe you didn’t see the Monday night game, but what I need is a defense, not a new O.C. I’d bring you on to, um, film, but ever since Goodell busted my chops on that a few years ago, I’ve had to cut way back on the number of toadies I can keep on my staff here in New England.
Your best buddy 4ever,
Billy B.
——————————————————————————————-
To: GMPioli@KCChiefs.com
Dear Scott,
My it’s been a long time. Congratulations on the new gig. Say, can you put in a good word for me with coach Haley? I’ve been calling and calling, but I just get that music on his cell phone, and as much as I enjoy the Pointer Sisters (hey, who doesn’t), he never returns my calls. I really think I can help him with Matt Cassell and you know, the Chiefs would have a decided schematic advantage with me on board.
Sincerely,
Charlie
Reply to: JerzeyBoi@Yahoo.com
Charlie,
As always, nice to hear from you. I ran it by Todd and he promises he’ll think about it, but he’s got a lot on his plate between cutting Larry Johnson and getting his ass beat by Philip Rivers. Trust me, he’s a little overwhelmed. But you know I’m your dawg and I’ll keep working for you. You’d love it here. This place is full of awesome barbeque.
Scottie Peezy
——————————————————————————————–
To: JCastiglione@OklahomaAthletics.org
Dear Joe:
I hear that you might be in the market for a new head football coach.
I am an undeniable heavy hitter in the coaching world. Although I’m not one for tooting my own horn, I did win Super Bowls with the New England Patriots. Which I’m sure you know. I’ve attached my resume, as well as video clips of some of the finest offensive plays ever conceived in the history of football from my years with New England. As will be abundantly evident to you, with me at the helm, your Sooners would most certainly enjoy a decided schematic advantage.
I look forward to your prompt response.
Charlie Weis
Replyto: 3TimeSBChamp@gmail.com
Dear Charlie,
Stoops is staying. Stick it, jerk.
Joe
——————————————————————————————–
To: ADSwarbrick@NotreDame.org
Dear Mr. Swarbrick,
Please begin depositing the six years of salary into my PayPal account at www.paypal.com/us/imstill=hungry forthwith.
Stay Golden,
Yours, Charlie
Class of ‘78
——————————————————————————————–
To: Oprah@Oprah.Oprah
Dear Ms. Winfrey,
You don’t know me, but my name is Charlie Weis and I have an idea for a new show for your new network. Let’s just say it’s American Idol meets the Biggest Loser on College Football Gameday. I know I’ve piqued your interest. Let’s do lunch.
Charlie Weis
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Alexander Ovechkin Is a Douche, but You Knew That Already
It’s been a bang-up week for the Pittsburgh Penguins.
First, the new zambonis arrived at their new home, the Consol Center. Pictures of the Zambonis are here.
Then God and God, Jr., also known as Mario Lemieux and Sidney Crosby, annointed the new ice surface at the Contsol Center.
Then Max Talbot called Alexander Ovechkin a “real douche” on the radio. The fine folks at SB Nation were kind enough to type up the transcript of his comments.
As Badger Bob used to say, it’s a great day for hockey.
First, the new zambonis arrived at their new home, the Consol Center. Pictures of the Zambonis are here.
Then God and God, Jr., also known as Mario Lemieux and Sidney Crosby, annointed the new ice surface at the Contsol Center.
Then Max Talbot called Alexander Ovechkin a “real douche” on the radio. The fine folks at SB Nation were kind enough to type up the transcript of his comments.
As Badger Bob used to say, it’s a great day for hockey.
The Grumpy Browns Face
From True/Slant on November 17, 2009:
Browns Fans Checking for a Pulse.
Has a professional football team ever performed worse than the Cleveland Browns did against the Baltimore Ravens on Monday Night Football?
For as dull as the game was, it was likewise strangely compelling. I couldn’t turn away, completely fascinated by the Browns’ ineptitude. It was like watching the living dead play football and I had to think that George Romero would be a more appropriate coach than Eric Mangini.
Certainly, other teams have had more turnovers or more grossly mismanaged the clock, been flagged for more penalties or had heinous special teams shanks and misfires, but not one team has ever been the festival of ineptitude witnessed by the Monday Night audience. Hello, Cleveland!
If dirt or grass were eligible receivers, Brady Quinn would be a Hall of Fame bound quarterback.
If wide outs were paid to run apathetic routes with their hands in their pants, the Browns would be all world in the receiving department.
If coaches were judged on their ability to mismanage personnel and devise tepid, timid gameplans, the Mangini braintrust would be in a class of their own. Heck, Rob Ryan and Eric Mangini couldn’t even get 11 guys on the field to defend against what turned out to be Baltimore’s only offensive touchdown of the night. Christ, send Derek Anderson out there. He’s not busy.
Flat out, these Cleveland Browns are positively inert, which accounts for the primetime appearance of the Grumpy Browns Face ™ on the shores of Lake Erie. Though they share some things in common, like an abject, utter despair, the Grumpy Browns Face ™ is distinctly, decidedly different from the Sad Buffalo Face, despite the proximity of the cities and the heart-breaking history of each respective franchise. A quick stroll through the valley of pain, Cleveland Browns style:
Red Right 88.
The Fumble.
The Drive.
The Chris Palmer era. Five and Twenty-Seven, baby!
Super Bowl XXXV.
And general post-expansion malaise.
That’s without even getting into Art Modell high-tailing it to Charm City with the beloved franchise, so it goes without saying that Browns fans have plenty to be grumpy about.
Unlike the Sad Buffalo Face, the Grumpy Browns Face is specific to the Browns franchise and not the entire city of Cleveland. (In fact, Cavs fans look more anxious and Indians fans just look drunk.)
But Browns fans wear generations of frustration and heart-break right on their kissers. The Grumpy Browns Face is the physiognomical correlative of a lover scorned and jilted. More than that, even: it is the kind of unique, searing pain experienced by a woman (or man) who is repeatedly tossed aside, left at the altar, stood up, and cheated on. This is the expression of a person who regularly wonders what he or she did in a former life to deserve such pain and torment in this one. It is most definitely the look of a person intimately familiar with betrayal.
It’s the face of Job tweaking on crystal meth and drunk on Nattie Light.
Since the Browns came back into existence after aforementioned Modell hijacking (speaking of betrayal), the Browns have played precisely one playoff game. ONE. Which they lost. Meanwhile, the hated division rival Steelers have won two Super Bowls, and the even more loathed Ravens won one. Even Bengals fans are hopeful.
In 2003, the Bengals drafted Carson Palmer. A year later, the Steelers drafted Ben Roethlisberger. In 2008, the Ravens drafted Joe Flacco. Legitiimate, NFL Franchise QB’s, each one of them. Roethlisberger has two rings already. Palmer and Flacco are each certainly capable of leading his team to the promised land, assuming all the other myriad factors fall into place.
Since that Palmer draft, the Browns have drafted Luke McCown, Charlie Frye, and Brady Quinn, and started a veritable murderer’s row at QB: Kelly Holcomb (9-15 record), Jeff Garcia (76.7 QB rating – the second worst of his career), Trent Dilfer (11 TD’s, 12 INT’s and 7 lost fumbles), former Zip Charlie Frye (2007 QB rating of 10; and I thought QB ratings were like the SAT’s where guys got 20 points or so for just lacing their cleats), Derek Anderson (with a QB rating of 35.5 for 2009 ) and Brady Quinn, who seems congenitally unable to throw the ball further than six yards beyond the line of scrimmage.
Currently, the Browns offense ranks dead last in points scored and are minus 17 in the turnover department, also good for dead last in the NFL. If you were a Browns fan, you’d be P.O.’ed, too. The Grumpy Browns Face was on full display on Monday night for all the world to see. It wasn’t pretty.
Careful, Browns fans, if you do that long enough, your faces may just stick like that.
Browns Fans Checking for a Pulse.
Has a professional football team ever performed worse than the Cleveland Browns did against the Baltimore Ravens on Monday Night Football?
For as dull as the game was, it was likewise strangely compelling. I couldn’t turn away, completely fascinated by the Browns’ ineptitude. It was like watching the living dead play football and I had to think that George Romero would be a more appropriate coach than Eric Mangini.
Certainly, other teams have had more turnovers or more grossly mismanaged the clock, been flagged for more penalties or had heinous special teams shanks and misfires, but not one team has ever been the festival of ineptitude witnessed by the Monday Night audience. Hello, Cleveland!
If dirt or grass were eligible receivers, Brady Quinn would be a Hall of Fame bound quarterback.
If wide outs were paid to run apathetic routes with their hands in their pants, the Browns would be all world in the receiving department.
If coaches were judged on their ability to mismanage personnel and devise tepid, timid gameplans, the Mangini braintrust would be in a class of their own. Heck, Rob Ryan and Eric Mangini couldn’t even get 11 guys on the field to defend against what turned out to be Baltimore’s only offensive touchdown of the night. Christ, send Derek Anderson out there. He’s not busy.
Flat out, these Cleveland Browns are positively inert, which accounts for the primetime appearance of the Grumpy Browns Face ™ on the shores of Lake Erie. Though they share some things in common, like an abject, utter despair, the Grumpy Browns Face ™ is distinctly, decidedly different from the Sad Buffalo Face, despite the proximity of the cities and the heart-breaking history of each respective franchise. A quick stroll through the valley of pain, Cleveland Browns style:
Red Right 88.
The Fumble.
The Drive.
The Chris Palmer era. Five and Twenty-Seven, baby!
Super Bowl XXXV.
And general post-expansion malaise.
That’s without even getting into Art Modell high-tailing it to Charm City with the beloved franchise, so it goes without saying that Browns fans have plenty to be grumpy about.
Unlike the Sad Buffalo Face, the Grumpy Browns Face is specific to the Browns franchise and not the entire city of Cleveland. (In fact, Cavs fans look more anxious and Indians fans just look drunk.)
But Browns fans wear generations of frustration and heart-break right on their kissers. The Grumpy Browns Face is the physiognomical correlative of a lover scorned and jilted. More than that, even: it is the kind of unique, searing pain experienced by a woman (or man) who is repeatedly tossed aside, left at the altar, stood up, and cheated on. This is the expression of a person who regularly wonders what he or she did in a former life to deserve such pain and torment in this one. It is most definitely the look of a person intimately familiar with betrayal.
It’s the face of Job tweaking on crystal meth and drunk on Nattie Light.
Since the Browns came back into existence after aforementioned Modell hijacking (speaking of betrayal), the Browns have played precisely one playoff game. ONE. Which they lost. Meanwhile, the hated division rival Steelers have won two Super Bowls, and the even more loathed Ravens won one. Even Bengals fans are hopeful.
In 2003, the Bengals drafted Carson Palmer. A year later, the Steelers drafted Ben Roethlisberger. In 2008, the Ravens drafted Joe Flacco. Legitiimate, NFL Franchise QB’s, each one of them. Roethlisberger has two rings already. Palmer and Flacco are each certainly capable of leading his team to the promised land, assuming all the other myriad factors fall into place.
Since that Palmer draft, the Browns have drafted Luke McCown, Charlie Frye, and Brady Quinn, and started a veritable murderer’s row at QB: Kelly Holcomb (9-15 record), Jeff Garcia (76.7 QB rating – the second worst of his career), Trent Dilfer (11 TD’s, 12 INT’s and 7 lost fumbles), former Zip Charlie Frye (2007 QB rating of 10; and I thought QB ratings were like the SAT’s where guys got 20 points or so for just lacing their cleats), Derek Anderson (with a QB rating of 35.5 for 2009 ) and Brady Quinn, who seems congenitally unable to throw the ball further than six yards beyond the line of scrimmage.
Currently, the Browns offense ranks dead last in points scored and are minus 17 in the turnover department, also good for dead last in the NFL. If you were a Browns fan, you’d be P.O.’ed, too. The Grumpy Browns Face was on full display on Monday night for all the world to see. It wasn’t pretty.
Careful, Browns fans, if you do that long enough, your faces may just stick like that.
Why I Hate Janet Jackson
From True/Slant on November 12, 2009:
Oh, it all started innocently enough, a tiny bit of nipple showing for a nanosecond during the halftime performance at Super Bowl XXXVIII. The NFL got their collective brassieres in such a bunch over nipple-gate that halftime has gotten older and older, tamer and tamer, and now even lamer.
First it was Paul McCartney. Old. Then the Stones. Old. Then the formerly interesting artist formerly known as Prince. Used to be good, now he’s old. Then Tom Petty. Old and lame. Then the Boss. Old.
So just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Sports Illustrated reports:
"Who wants some breaking news? Who wants to know who is performing at halftime of Super Bowl XLIV on Feb. 7 in Miami? Who wants me to shut up and just get to it already? Well, if you haven’t figured it out by now, according to a source, The Who will take the stage during the NFL’s championship game. Reached for comment, an NFL spokesperson said, “When we have something to announce, we’ll announce it.” I can assure you I’m not just writing this because Tori Praver rocked this body paint in Sports Illustrated’s 2007 Swimsuit Issue, which was billed as “The Music Issue.” The Who will be performing at the Super Bowl."
It’s all Janet’s fault that I have to watch a geriatric Roger Daltry preening around the stage. No doubt topless. And I wonder if Pete Townsend still has the upper body strength required to smash his guitar on stage?
Maybe they can get the Dead to play next year. Not the Grateful Dead, just various dead musical acts.
Oh, it all started innocently enough, a tiny bit of nipple showing for a nanosecond during the halftime performance at Super Bowl XXXVIII. The NFL got their collective brassieres in such a bunch over nipple-gate that halftime has gotten older and older, tamer and tamer, and now even lamer.
First it was Paul McCartney. Old. Then the Stones. Old. Then the formerly interesting artist formerly known as Prince. Used to be good, now he’s old. Then Tom Petty. Old and lame. Then the Boss. Old.
So just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, Sports Illustrated reports:
"Who wants some breaking news? Who wants to know who is performing at halftime of Super Bowl XLIV on Feb. 7 in Miami? Who wants me to shut up and just get to it already? Well, if you haven’t figured it out by now, according to a source, The Who will take the stage during the NFL’s championship game. Reached for comment, an NFL spokesperson said, “When we have something to announce, we’ll announce it.” I can assure you I’m not just writing this because Tori Praver rocked this body paint in Sports Illustrated’s 2007 Swimsuit Issue, which was billed as “The Music Issue.” The Who will be performing at the Super Bowl."
It’s all Janet’s fault that I have to watch a geriatric Roger Daltry preening around the stage. No doubt topless. And I wonder if Pete Townsend still has the upper body strength required to smash his guitar on stage?
Maybe they can get the Dead to play next year. Not the Grateful Dead, just various dead musical acts.
A Mock Celebration of Alex Rodriquez
From True/Slant on November 3, 2009:
A Festival of A Rod
If you grew up Catholic, you know that the countdown to Christmas is measured with an Advent Wreath and that the holiest time of the year starts with Ash Wednesday and runs through lent to Easter. Blessed days indeed.
But like George Costanza’s dad, I’m the creator of my own liturgical calendar. I celebrate the High Holy Days of Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez.
Before you know it, Izzo Day will be upon us on November 15th, which marks the day in 2007 when Alex teamed up with Jay-Z to host a celebrity poker tournament. It was only like the greatest celebrity poker tournament ever.
After that comes one of my favorite holy days, the day when we celebrate the first of A Rod’s miracles, the day when, through his wondrous powers, he created a bidding war between Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks and … Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks. For lo, on December 11th, 2000, Hicks agreed to pay Rodriguez $262 million over 10 years, $63 million more than the next richest baseball contract and considerably higher even, than any other bidder.
Seven years and two days after his first miracle, A Rod performed his second miracle, signing his 10 year contract with the New York Yankees on December 13, 2007, the biggest contract in MLB. A lesser holy day than the first miracle, but worth noting nevertheless.
Like Jesus enduring his night at Gesthemane, we mark the day that A Roid, um, A Rod struggled through his February 17th press conference confessing that he toyed with performance enhancing drugs. Why must he suffer so? Oh, why?
This is one of the highest of the holy days on the A Rod liturgical calendar, though theologians and anthropologists debate the exact exact date. Still we celebrate this most pivotal time in A Rod’s life on April 6th as the day when he first read the Narnia books, and as any A Rod fan can tell you, the Centaurs
remained true to Narnia, pledging to fight alongside Prince Caspian against Caspian’s uncle Miraz at the Second Battle of Beruna. And of course, in the final days in Narnia, the Centaurs fought in the Battle of StableHill against the Calormene Army. But you knew that.
On April 30, we celebrate the day when an unknown prophet at one of young Alex’s Little League games first called him A Rod. Some scholars think that the prophet actually said “A God,” which would have been quite accurate. The debate rages on, but “A Rod” was born.
On May 17th, we celebrate the day the Details photoshoot hit the stand. We mark this day with fabulous cocktails and mirrored disco ball.
On July 1st we celebrate the day that Rodriguez mastered Kabbalah. Madonna has been studying it for years, but it only took A Rod one night in her hotel room to understand the scope and entirety of Kaballah. Like the Jews at Passover, we celebrate this day by reclining. And drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine.
The Highest of the High Holy days is the birthday of Alex Rodriguez on July 27th. Why, it’s better than the 4th of July and Christmas combined. After all, those days only celebrate the birth of a nation and the birth of god, respectively. Jesus was a cool dude, but when did he ever hit for the cycle?
Like the Jews on Yom Kippur and the Catholics on Good Friday, we observe a day of quiet reflection to commemorate one of the saddest days for Rodriguez, for on October 19th, 2004, he slapped at Red Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo like Lady GaGa. Bronson Arroyo? C’mon man.
I was going to pen in November 4th as the day that Alex Rodriguez won his first World Series, but we have to wait for that celebration. Yeah, thanks a lot Phillies.
A Festival of A Rod
If you grew up Catholic, you know that the countdown to Christmas is measured with an Advent Wreath and that the holiest time of the year starts with Ash Wednesday and runs through lent to Easter. Blessed days indeed.
But like George Costanza’s dad, I’m the creator of my own liturgical calendar. I celebrate the High Holy Days of Alexander Emmanuel Rodriguez.
Before you know it, Izzo Day will be upon us on November 15th, which marks the day in 2007 when Alex teamed up with Jay-Z to host a celebrity poker tournament. It was only like the greatest celebrity poker tournament ever.
After that comes one of my favorite holy days, the day when we celebrate the first of A Rod’s miracles, the day when, through his wondrous powers, he created a bidding war between Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks and … Texas Rangers owner Tom Hicks. For lo, on December 11th, 2000, Hicks agreed to pay Rodriguez $262 million over 10 years, $63 million more than the next richest baseball contract and considerably higher even, than any other bidder.
Seven years and two days after his first miracle, A Rod performed his second miracle, signing his 10 year contract with the New York Yankees on December 13, 2007, the biggest contract in MLB. A lesser holy day than the first miracle, but worth noting nevertheless.
Like Jesus enduring his night at Gesthemane, we mark the day that A Roid, um, A Rod struggled through his February 17th press conference confessing that he toyed with performance enhancing drugs. Why must he suffer so? Oh, why?
This is one of the highest of the holy days on the A Rod liturgical calendar, though theologians and anthropologists debate the exact exact date. Still we celebrate this most pivotal time in A Rod’s life on April 6th as the day when he first read the Narnia books, and as any A Rod fan can tell you, the Centaurs
remained true to Narnia, pledging to fight alongside Prince Caspian against Caspian’s uncle Miraz at the Second Battle of Beruna. And of course, in the final days in Narnia, the Centaurs fought in the Battle of StableHill against the Calormene Army. But you knew that.
On April 30, we celebrate the day when an unknown prophet at one of young Alex’s Little League games first called him A Rod. Some scholars think that the prophet actually said “A God,” which would have been quite accurate. The debate rages on, but “A Rod” was born.
On May 17th, we celebrate the day the Details photoshoot hit the stand. We mark this day with fabulous cocktails and mirrored disco ball.
On July 1st we celebrate the day that Rodriguez mastered Kabbalah. Madonna has been studying it for years, but it only took A Rod one night in her hotel room to understand the scope and entirety of Kaballah. Like the Jews at Passover, we celebrate this day by reclining. And drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine.
The Highest of the High Holy days is the birthday of Alex Rodriguez on July 27th. Why, it’s better than the 4th of July and Christmas combined. After all, those days only celebrate the birth of a nation and the birth of god, respectively. Jesus was a cool dude, but when did he ever hit for the cycle?
Like the Jews on Yom Kippur and the Catholics on Good Friday, we observe a day of quiet reflection to commemorate one of the saddest days for Rodriguez, for on October 19th, 2004, he slapped at Red Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo like Lady GaGa. Bronson Arroyo? C’mon man.
I was going to pen in November 4th as the day that Alex Rodriguez won his first World Series, but we have to wait for that celebration. Yeah, thanks a lot Phillies.
Review of "Training Rules" Documentary
From True/Slant on October 27, 2009
‘Training Rules’ an Examination of the ‘No Lesbians’ Policy at Penn State.
I had the good fortune to catch Dee Mosbacher’s documentary, “Training Rules” about former Penn State University women’s basketball coach Rene Portland. Portland, a successful coach in wins and losses, also had a personal obsession to ferret out and eradicate lesbians from her program. “Training Rules” takes a look at the Portland regime and, in particular, the lawsuit filed by former player, Jennifer Harris, who was booted off the team in 2004. But to understand Portland’s reign of terror, you have to go back decades, before Jennifer Harris ever picked up a basketball.
In the early 1980’s Rene Portland was a talented young coach and Cindy Davies was a talented young hoopster. Davies was also struggling with her sexuality. She says that coach Portland threatened to out her to her parents and to the media, as well as kicking her off the team. Davies left Penn State quietly. It’s hard to know if anybody outside of that locker room knew what Portland was up to when Davies left, but a few years later, the coach went public with her feelings, telling the Chicago Sun-Times, “I will not have it [lesbianism] on my team,” in 1986.
Try substituting “black” or “Asian” or “Jewish” for “lesbians.” Roll those sentences around on your tongue and see how that feels: I will not have blacks on my team. I will not have Asians on my team. I will not have Jews on my team. Just how long would it have taken Penn State, or any university, to fire a coach who adopted that kind of practice and had the temerity to say it for publication in a major newspaper? One hour? Less time than that? And yet, Penn State did nothing. What could the Athletic Department have been thinking?
Penn State never fired Portland, even though references to her policies again surfaced in a 1991 Philadelphia Inquirer article, despite the fact that the University had added gays and lesbians to it’s non-discrimination policy that very same year. Season followed season, players came and went, Portland received coaching awards, won her conference multiple times and took her team to the NCAA tournament most years. All the while, continuing her spiteful crusade.
Until one courageous young woman, one with a family strong enough to back her, said enough and took legal action against Portland in 2005. That’s right, it was going on still in 2005. Still Penn State turned a blind eye to Portland’s draconian policies. In 2007, the Harris case settled out of court. Portland finally resigned in May of 2007.
Around the time that Harris filed her lawsuit in 2005, I sat down for a long chat with two women who had played at Penn State in the mid-1980’s. They indicated there were lots of rules on Portland’s teams: No lesbians allowed. Inter-racial dating was verboten. And while she didn’t discriminate against black players, it was understood that she wanted her players to look a certain way – i.e. they couldn’t be too black, wear cornrows, adopt hip hop styles and the like. It took it’s toll on all the players, gay and straight, black and white. One player remembered a year when the team lost in the early rounds of the NCAA tournament; Portland was irate, but the players were secretly relieved the season was over.
One of those former players spoke to me only on the condition of anonymity. She was still traumatized, still hurt, still ashamed in 2005. I never forgot how emotionally delicate she seemed even after 20 years. It was so satisfying to see that same former player, Lisa Faloon, break her silence in the film and speak freely about how difficult that time was for her and how she finally overcame it.
At the time I met Faloon, I was so outraged by Portland’s Stasi-like tactics and disgusted by the indifference of the University and Joe Paterno (if anybody could have stopped Portland, it was Joe Paterno; I’m not exaggerating when I say that at State College, Pennsylvania, Joe Paterno is god and if he demanded that the university dig up Nittany Mountain and move it one mile south, it would be done before the end of the football season), that I forgot the most important part of the story: that these were kids, really. They were kids who had their trust broken and their dreams taken.
I had also overlooked the most amazing part of the story, which is Jennifer Harris, herself. Jen Harris should be feted from coast to coast, for having the courage at the tender age of 19 or 20, to take on legendary coach Rene Portland, Joe Pa and the inexhaustible legal firepower of the Penn State Athletic Department.
Part of the settlement was a confidentiality agreement, but I so wish that Jennifer Harris were permitted to speak about it, because I’d love to ask her where she found the strength to do it. I want to know how she got through the toughest, darkest times and kept battling. I know her basketball career didn’t work out the way she hoped it would (though she resumed playing basketball for James Madison, according to the film, she suffered a career ending ankle injury), but I’d like to ask her if it is of any small comfort to know that tactics like Portland’s won’t be tolerated, that no other young women will suffer the way that she did, the way that Lisa Faloon and Cindy Davies did. I love basketball, but I love justice even more and to me, Jen Harris is a hero.
‘Training Rules’ an Examination of the ‘No Lesbians’ Policy at Penn State.
I had the good fortune to catch Dee Mosbacher’s documentary, “Training Rules” about former Penn State University women’s basketball coach Rene Portland. Portland, a successful coach in wins and losses, also had a personal obsession to ferret out and eradicate lesbians from her program. “Training Rules” takes a look at the Portland regime and, in particular, the lawsuit filed by former player, Jennifer Harris, who was booted off the team in 2004. But to understand Portland’s reign of terror, you have to go back decades, before Jennifer Harris ever picked up a basketball.
In the early 1980’s Rene Portland was a talented young coach and Cindy Davies was a talented young hoopster. Davies was also struggling with her sexuality. She says that coach Portland threatened to out her to her parents and to the media, as well as kicking her off the team. Davies left Penn State quietly. It’s hard to know if anybody outside of that locker room knew what Portland was up to when Davies left, but a few years later, the coach went public with her feelings, telling the Chicago Sun-Times, “I will not have it [lesbianism] on my team,” in 1986.
Try substituting “black” or “Asian” or “Jewish” for “lesbians.” Roll those sentences around on your tongue and see how that feels: I will not have blacks on my team. I will not have Asians on my team. I will not have Jews on my team. Just how long would it have taken Penn State, or any university, to fire a coach who adopted that kind of practice and had the temerity to say it for publication in a major newspaper? One hour? Less time than that? And yet, Penn State did nothing. What could the Athletic Department have been thinking?
Penn State never fired Portland, even though references to her policies again surfaced in a 1991 Philadelphia Inquirer article, despite the fact that the University had added gays and lesbians to it’s non-discrimination policy that very same year. Season followed season, players came and went, Portland received coaching awards, won her conference multiple times and took her team to the NCAA tournament most years. All the while, continuing her spiteful crusade.
Until one courageous young woman, one with a family strong enough to back her, said enough and took legal action against Portland in 2005. That’s right, it was going on still in 2005. Still Penn State turned a blind eye to Portland’s draconian policies. In 2007, the Harris case settled out of court. Portland finally resigned in May of 2007.
Around the time that Harris filed her lawsuit in 2005, I sat down for a long chat with two women who had played at Penn State in the mid-1980’s. They indicated there were lots of rules on Portland’s teams: No lesbians allowed. Inter-racial dating was verboten. And while she didn’t discriminate against black players, it was understood that she wanted her players to look a certain way – i.e. they couldn’t be too black, wear cornrows, adopt hip hop styles and the like. It took it’s toll on all the players, gay and straight, black and white. One player remembered a year when the team lost in the early rounds of the NCAA tournament; Portland was irate, but the players were secretly relieved the season was over.
One of those former players spoke to me only on the condition of anonymity. She was still traumatized, still hurt, still ashamed in 2005. I never forgot how emotionally delicate she seemed even after 20 years. It was so satisfying to see that same former player, Lisa Faloon, break her silence in the film and speak freely about how difficult that time was for her and how she finally overcame it.
At the time I met Faloon, I was so outraged by Portland’s Stasi-like tactics and disgusted by the indifference of the University and Joe Paterno (if anybody could have stopped Portland, it was Joe Paterno; I’m not exaggerating when I say that at State College, Pennsylvania, Joe Paterno is god and if he demanded that the university dig up Nittany Mountain and move it one mile south, it would be done before the end of the football season), that I forgot the most important part of the story: that these were kids, really. They were kids who had their trust broken and their dreams taken.
I had also overlooked the most amazing part of the story, which is Jennifer Harris, herself. Jen Harris should be feted from coast to coast, for having the courage at the tender age of 19 or 20, to take on legendary coach Rene Portland, Joe Pa and the inexhaustible legal firepower of the Penn State Athletic Department.
Part of the settlement was a confidentiality agreement, but I so wish that Jennifer Harris were permitted to speak about it, because I’d love to ask her where she found the strength to do it. I want to know how she got through the toughest, darkest times and kept battling. I know her basketball career didn’t work out the way she hoped it would (though she resumed playing basketball for James Madison, according to the film, she suffered a career ending ankle injury), but I’d like to ask her if it is of any small comfort to know that tactics like Portland’s won’t be tolerated, that no other young women will suffer the way that she did, the way that Lisa Faloon and Cindy Davies did. I love basketball, but I love justice even more and to me, Jen Harris is a hero.
Picking a Bandwagon for the 2009 Baseball Post-Season
From True/Slant on October 7, 2009:
Pick a Baseball Bandwagon for the Postseason.
What’s that? You don’t have a team in the baseball playoffs, but you want to be able to guzzle beer at yon local Sports Bar like a pro? Here’s a handy rooting guide for fans without a dog in the hunt:
Second Team
If you live some place like Pittsburgh or Baltimore, it’s probably a good idea to designate a fall-back team in April, one with at least a snowball’s chance in hell to make the post-season. The Yanks and Sox do not count. So pick from some other pool.
The Managers
My friends will point to a litany of reasons to root against the Boston Red Sox, but their manager, Terry Francona is a strong check in their favor. First of all, Francona’s always a class act and he calmly stared down irate from Red Sox fans his first year to go with his gut. It’s amazing how a couple of World Series rings will shut people up. Francona has equanimity. That’s so appealing. (Also, on a personal note, Francona grew up a short distance from Pittsburgh and I heard it from a guy who heard it from another guy that he’s a good guy. That’s good enough for me.)
Then there’s Ron Gardenhire in Minnesota, who is one of the best managers in the bigs and does more with his puny payroll than anybody I can think of.
On the other end of the spectrum,
there is the insufferable Tony LaRussa. I personally hold LaRussa responsible for the lengthening of baseball games. Used to be that you could go and enjoy a game without any added stimulants, but now you need a Red Bull, a Double-Shot and one of those 5-hour energy things to get through a Cardinals game. If LaRussa were allowed to carry 27 pitchers on his roster, he would, just so that he could switch hurlers with every single batter from the first inning forward. Just to prove that he is a master tactician. Oof. Plus, he’s a lawyer.
The Big Star
Every team in the post-season is powered by at least one star.
Do you like Manny of Mannywood? Really? You do? Are you impaired in some way that I’m not aware of?
Maybe you prefer A-Rod. C’mon now. You’re joshing. Nobody likes A-Rod. Not even Yankees fans.
Or, even better, the unbelievable Joe Mauer with his gaudy batting average and reasonable salary. The guy has a huge upside.
I like a speed game, so I give my nod to Philadelphia’s Jimmy Rollins. But your mileage, as always, may vary.
The Field
Automatic demerits to any team that plays in a dome or on any surface other than normal, garden variety grass.
Then there are the aesthetics of the place. I’m a traditionalist. I love Wrigley. I love Fenway. I also love Dodger stadium and I hear good things about the new Busch Stadium in St. Louis.
The altitude at Coors is nettlesome. Demerit. The new Yankee Stadium goes to the bottom of the pile for it’s heinous homer-vacuum to right field, and the even more heinous prices for field box seats.
The Uniforms
You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Uniforms are huge. Any uniform with a mish-mosh of fonts is anathema. Last year’s Devil Rays were guilty of all kinds of crimes of fashion in this regard. When it comes to uniforms, belted and old-timey is best. The Yanks, the Card and the BoSox are at the top of the list of any sartorially minded fan.
The Salary
Do you think it’s ridiculous to spend TARP-like money on a baseball team? Well, put the Yanks at the bottom of your list and move the Minnesota Twins to the top of the pile for this one. Like I said, year in and year out, Gardenhire does more with less than anybody.
Location
When it comes to football, I often root for the Saints, just because New Orleans is one of my favorite places on earth. There’s no reason the same ‘logic’ cannot be applied to baseball.
Do you hate New York traffic? Boston Baked Beans? Or Coors beer? Then move the Yanks, Sox and Rockies to the bottom of the list.
Is ‘Rocky’ your favorite movie and cheesesteaks your favorite hangover food? Clearly, you should haul your butt onto the Phillies bandwagon.
Personal Vendettas
This is the most important category. It over-rides all other categories, domes and salaries be damned. Do you have a personal beef to pick with one (or more) of the remaining franchises?
Are you a Braves fan or a Padres fan? You don’t have to go far back to remember when the Yankees steam-rolled your team in the World Series.
If you live in Detroit, the wounds are very, very fresh, so you obviously won’t be rooting for the Twins.
Sports are all about teamwork and community building, but they are also about acrimony and resentment. So when all else fails, find your inner sports-hate ball and let it guide you.
Pick a Baseball Bandwagon for the Postseason.
What’s that? You don’t have a team in the baseball playoffs, but you want to be able to guzzle beer at yon local Sports Bar like a pro? Here’s a handy rooting guide for fans without a dog in the hunt:
Second Team
If you live some place like Pittsburgh or Baltimore, it’s probably a good idea to designate a fall-back team in April, one with at least a snowball’s chance in hell to make the post-season. The Yanks and Sox do not count. So pick from some other pool.
The Managers
My friends will point to a litany of reasons to root against the Boston Red Sox, but their manager, Terry Francona is a strong check in their favor. First of all, Francona’s always a class act and he calmly stared down irate from Red Sox fans his first year to go with his gut. It’s amazing how a couple of World Series rings will shut people up. Francona has equanimity. That’s so appealing. (Also, on a personal note, Francona grew up a short distance from Pittsburgh and I heard it from a guy who heard it from another guy that he’s a good guy. That’s good enough for me.)
Then there’s Ron Gardenhire in Minnesota, who is one of the best managers in the bigs and does more with his puny payroll than anybody I can think of.
On the other end of the spectrum,
there is the insufferable Tony LaRussa. I personally hold LaRussa responsible for the lengthening of baseball games. Used to be that you could go and enjoy a game without any added stimulants, but now you need a Red Bull, a Double-Shot and one of those 5-hour energy things to get through a Cardinals game. If LaRussa were allowed to carry 27 pitchers on his roster, he would, just so that he could switch hurlers with every single batter from the first inning forward. Just to prove that he is a master tactician. Oof. Plus, he’s a lawyer.
The Big Star
Every team in the post-season is powered by at least one star.
Do you like Manny of Mannywood? Really? You do? Are you impaired in some way that I’m not aware of?
Maybe you prefer A-Rod. C’mon now. You’re joshing. Nobody likes A-Rod. Not even Yankees fans.
Or, even better, the unbelievable Joe Mauer with his gaudy batting average and reasonable salary. The guy has a huge upside.
I like a speed game, so I give my nod to Philadelphia’s Jimmy Rollins. But your mileage, as always, may vary.
The Field
Automatic demerits to any team that plays in a dome or on any surface other than normal, garden variety grass.
Then there are the aesthetics of the place. I’m a traditionalist. I love Wrigley. I love Fenway. I also love Dodger stadium and I hear good things about the new Busch Stadium in St. Louis.
The altitude at Coors is nettlesome. Demerit. The new Yankee Stadium goes to the bottom of the pile for it’s heinous homer-vacuum to right field, and the even more heinous prices for field box seats.
The Uniforms
You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Uniforms are huge. Any uniform with a mish-mosh of fonts is anathema. Last year’s Devil Rays were guilty of all kinds of crimes of fashion in this regard. When it comes to uniforms, belted and old-timey is best. The Yanks, the Card and the BoSox are at the top of the list of any sartorially minded fan.
The Salary
Do you think it’s ridiculous to spend TARP-like money on a baseball team? Well, put the Yanks at the bottom of your list and move the Minnesota Twins to the top of the pile for this one. Like I said, year in and year out, Gardenhire does more with less than anybody.
Location
When it comes to football, I often root for the Saints, just because New Orleans is one of my favorite places on earth. There’s no reason the same ‘logic’ cannot be applied to baseball.
Do you hate New York traffic? Boston Baked Beans? Or Coors beer? Then move the Yanks, Sox and Rockies to the bottom of the list.
Is ‘Rocky’ your favorite movie and cheesesteaks your favorite hangover food? Clearly, you should haul your butt onto the Phillies bandwagon.
Personal Vendettas
This is the most important category. It over-rides all other categories, domes and salaries be damned. Do you have a personal beef to pick with one (or more) of the remaining franchises?
Are you a Braves fan or a Padres fan? You don’t have to go far back to remember when the Yankees steam-rolled your team in the World Series.
If you live in Detroit, the wounds are very, very fresh, so you obviously won’t be rooting for the Twins.
Sports are all about teamwork and community building, but they are also about acrimony and resentment. So when all else fails, find your inner sports-hate ball and let it guide you.
Terrell Owens Makes Sad Buffalo Face
From True/Slant on September 15, 2009:
Patriots Win Makes Terrell Owens & Nation Sad
My in-laws have a home in Cape Cod and I spend at least one week a year with them, which happens to be this week. It’s wonderful here, but I found myself behind enemy lines, as it were, watching the New England Patriots take on the Buffalo Bills at a little restaurant in Truro, Massachusetts. It was one of the more subdued experiences of my sports viewing life.
Despite my fondness for the region, the fact that this game meant nothing to me, that the Bills mean nothing to me, I wanted the Pats to lose. I wanted this very much. And I wanted their fans to suffer.
In the interest of full disclosure, I really like New England, the actual place, not the NFL franchise. I like Cape Cod beaches, Dunkin Donuts coffee and Nantucket Nectars. I love Ted Kennedy, Boston’s North End, Sam Adams beers, Click & Clack of “Car-Talk” fame, and Wellfleet oysters. I rooted for Larry Bird and Carlton Fisk. And it’s true that rooted for Big Papi, too. I’m even fond of Howard Dean and spent one of the more fun afternoons of my life hauling in lobster traps on a boat near Portland, Maine. It should also be noted that I hate the New England Patriots and have written about it at great length elsewhere, snarking on Hoodie, the smug, handsome quarterback, their Gordon Gekko wannabe owner, and the red, blue and silver uniforms. (Hello, your name references the birth of the United State of America? How’s about you go back to the old red, blue and white? )
To sum up, the things I love about New England are pretty much every thing but the Patriots who I hate very, very much. And I am not alone. The dislike for this team? It is everywhere. And it goes deep.
And so, surrounded by Pats fans (and anxious to observe them in their own habitat), I quietly rooted against the Patriots, futilely hoping the Bills would find a way to hold them off. It is my decided opinion that Patriots fans have not suffered enough and that Bills fans have suffered tenfold more than their share. Of course, as these things go, the Bills lost, adding just one more layer of suffering for Buffalo fans watching their team blow it.
I think that if you cut a Bills fan in half, you can count the rings of suffering, like counting the rings of very old Oak.
Up by 11 points with about five and a half minutes to play, the Buffalo coaching staff thought it wise to abandon everything they had done heretofore (which had worked beautifully), change tacks to cede the short passing game to Tom Brady who then proceeded to pick them apart into bite sized Buffalo bites and pull his team within five points. But the game was still there for the taking. All the Bills had to do was not turn the ball over, which of course, they promptly did on the ensuing kickoff as the Leodis McKelvin fumble ensured the primacy of the Patriots and the hopelessness of the Bills. As they say, it was just the Bills being the Bills.
For 55 minutes, the Bills outplayed the mighty, imperious Patriots, holding the unstoppable New England offense in check. Only to screw it up. My heart broke a little for Buffalo fans who I’m sure felt like they’ve been here, in this exact spot — on the losing end of an imminently winnable game, watching a choice opportunity slip through their grasps.
It’s sad, really. So sad, in fact, that it occasioned the inaugural Sad Buffalo Face of the TO era.
The Sad Buffalo Face is unique to Buffalo (hence the name) and while other fans have reasons to be sad or mad or dejected, the Sad Buffalo Face is unlike any other franchise face. I have this friend who is a Bills fans and at least 10 times a year, she makes her Sad Buffalo Face. It is the face of dejection. It is at once surprised and resigned, both injured and beyond hurt, full of longing and utter despair. It is a face that says, “How did we end up here again?” while at the same time saying, “I knew we’d end up here again.”
The Sad Buffalo Face always makes me think, there but for the grace of god go I — I could have been born a Bills fan.
Welcome to the full Buffalo experience, Terrell. I think we’re going to be seeing a lot of his Sad Buffalo Face.
Patriots Win Makes Terrell Owens & Nation Sad
My in-laws have a home in Cape Cod and I spend at least one week a year with them, which happens to be this week. It’s wonderful here, but I found myself behind enemy lines, as it were, watching the New England Patriots take on the Buffalo Bills at a little restaurant in Truro, Massachusetts. It was one of the more subdued experiences of my sports viewing life.
Despite my fondness for the region, the fact that this game meant nothing to me, that the Bills mean nothing to me, I wanted the Pats to lose. I wanted this very much. And I wanted their fans to suffer.
In the interest of full disclosure, I really like New England, the actual place, not the NFL franchise. I like Cape Cod beaches, Dunkin Donuts coffee and Nantucket Nectars. I love Ted Kennedy, Boston’s North End, Sam Adams beers, Click & Clack of “Car-Talk” fame, and Wellfleet oysters. I rooted for Larry Bird and Carlton Fisk. And it’s true that rooted for Big Papi, too. I’m even fond of Howard Dean and spent one of the more fun afternoons of my life hauling in lobster traps on a boat near Portland, Maine. It should also be noted that I hate the New England Patriots and have written about it at great length elsewhere, snarking on Hoodie, the smug, handsome quarterback, their Gordon Gekko wannabe owner, and the red, blue and silver uniforms. (Hello, your name references the birth of the United State of America? How’s about you go back to the old red, blue and white? )
To sum up, the things I love about New England are pretty much every thing but the Patriots who I hate very, very much. And I am not alone. The dislike for this team? It is everywhere. And it goes deep.
And so, surrounded by Pats fans (and anxious to observe them in their own habitat), I quietly rooted against the Patriots, futilely hoping the Bills would find a way to hold them off. It is my decided opinion that Patriots fans have not suffered enough and that Bills fans have suffered tenfold more than their share. Of course, as these things go, the Bills lost, adding just one more layer of suffering for Buffalo fans watching their team blow it.
I think that if you cut a Bills fan in half, you can count the rings of suffering, like counting the rings of very old Oak.
Up by 11 points with about five and a half minutes to play, the Buffalo coaching staff thought it wise to abandon everything they had done heretofore (which had worked beautifully), change tacks to cede the short passing game to Tom Brady who then proceeded to pick them apart into bite sized Buffalo bites and pull his team within five points. But the game was still there for the taking. All the Bills had to do was not turn the ball over, which of course, they promptly did on the ensuing kickoff as the Leodis McKelvin fumble ensured the primacy of the Patriots and the hopelessness of the Bills. As they say, it was just the Bills being the Bills.
For 55 minutes, the Bills outplayed the mighty, imperious Patriots, holding the unstoppable New England offense in check. Only to screw it up. My heart broke a little for Buffalo fans who I’m sure felt like they’ve been here, in this exact spot — on the losing end of an imminently winnable game, watching a choice opportunity slip through their grasps.
It’s sad, really. So sad, in fact, that it occasioned the inaugural Sad Buffalo Face of the TO era.
The Sad Buffalo Face is unique to Buffalo (hence the name) and while other fans have reasons to be sad or mad or dejected, the Sad Buffalo Face is unlike any other franchise face. I have this friend who is a Bills fans and at least 10 times a year, she makes her Sad Buffalo Face. It is the face of dejection. It is at once surprised and resigned, both injured and beyond hurt, full of longing and utter despair. It is a face that says, “How did we end up here again?” while at the same time saying, “I knew we’d end up here again.”
The Sad Buffalo Face always makes me think, there but for the grace of god go I — I could have been born a Bills fan.
Welcome to the full Buffalo experience, Terrell. I think we’re going to be seeing a lot of his Sad Buffalo Face.
Mishaps to Root for in the 2009 NFL Season
From True/Slant on September 10, 2009:
Mishaps, Mayhem and Misery to Actively Root for in the NFL Season
The 2009 NFL season is full bore upon us, full of predictions, power rankings, prevarications, prognostications and pretenders. Predictions? Always wrong. Power Rankings? Feh. Like the Grinch, I’m looking for the negative, reveling in anticipation of potential failures. Here are some massive miscues I’m hoping for:
1. The New England Patriots come back to earth. Patriots fans rationalize last year’s 11-5 record reflected one thing and one thing only: Tom Brady on the IR. The man who looks as comfortable on a runway at Fashion Week as he is on a gridiron, the modelizer in chief with the Hollywood good looks and silly hipster hats is back.
But will it really catapult New England back to the top of the pecking order?
Personally, I hope GQ Tom is healthy — no excuses from beantown this year. I wonder about the rest of the team. The offensive line, once a perfect stonewall around Giselle’s hubby, shows cracks and it’s possible his uni may get a wee dirty from time to time. The defense has lost too many players to count and is weak against the pass.
Meanwhile, sneaky Bill Belichick seems less evil. He used to be positively Cheney-esque and I honestly think opposing coaches caved against him for fear that he would reach down their throats and eat their still beating hearts at the 50 yard line. But between tearing up at Tedy Bruschi’s retirement and even occasionally smiling at training camp, Head Hoodie seems almost human.
2. The Minnesota Vikings get a big bite in the ass from Lady Karma. With all the coaching talent out there, with Bill Cowher, Brian Billick, Tony Dungy and Mike Shanahan out of work, and given the success of the bright young guys like Mike Tomlin, Ken Whisenhunt and John Harbaugh, I find it hard to imagine how the Vikings organization reflected and said, “Yeah, Brad Childress. He’s the guy to take this team to the next level and get us that elusive Lombardi Trophy. Yuppers.” As a southern friend of mine used to say, rilly?
This off-season, Childress created a bidding war against himself for the services of Brett Favre by publicly slavering over the 40 year old interception king. (Hey, I actually like Favre, so this is no knock on him). Childress obsessed like one of those adolescent girls fixated on the “Twilight” books. He begged and pleaded. He called. And called. And called. He had to have Favre; couldn’t win without Favre; it all came down to mighty Brett Favre. Then, with the evanescent Favre secured and cloaked in Minnesota purple, Childress sent his irreplacable QB out in a wildcat formation, whereupon the elder indispensable man committed an illegal crackback block, injuring Texans DB, Eugene Wilson in the process. In a meaningless pre-season game. The league fined Favre $10,000 for the hit. They should have fined Childress. $50,000 for being a dickhead.
3. The only thing worse that the Head Hoodie in New England is Hoodie Lite, Josh McDaniels, in Denver. He’s got all of the ego and none of the substance. McDaniels has alienated not only the fans, but his entire team in record speed. A petulant child with a multi-million dollar arm Jay Cutler may be, but he knew the Broncos ship was sinking the minute the ersatz Bellichick arrived in town.
To paraphrase Joan Cusack: just because I wear a hoodie with the sleeves cut off and draw up defenses on a legal pad doesn’t make me Bill Bellichick. Never will.
4. Presenting: Jerry Jones and his amazing punt-blocking videoscreens! Okay, so Jones spent $1.2 billion to build a new stadium and he wanted every bell and whistle available, and even a few whistles that hadn’t been invented yet. So he sent his minions into the future and they came back with a Deathstar sized HD videoscreen to suspend over the field. So fans could see the game without actually looking at the field in front of them where the Cowboys will actually play the games. I know Jones was trying to create an amazing multi-media, all-out visual and aural assault on every synapse in the brain of every fan in the stands. He was going for a wow factor beyond mere football and while it’s not my style, I kinda get it.
It was all grand until a jabeep free agent punter for Tennessee doinked a punt off the undercarriage of the videoboard. Not the regular punter for the Titans, mind you, nor in a regular season game. It was a free agent destined to for the slag heap who hit the videoboard. Jerr’Jones’ response? “Ah, that’ll never happen during a regular season game.” Really? Well, in case it does, the league has allowed for a do-over and I am fervently praying that we see at least a dozen balls bounce off that thing this season.
5. Little Danny Snyder’s crash and burn. He’s obnoxious, he’s cocky, he hangs out with Tom Cruise (which is just gross enough without continuing), and he never met an overpriced free-agent he didn’t like. This year, Snyder’s front office sued a little old lady long-time Redskins season-ticket holder who has fallen on hard economic times and couldn’t pay for her season tickets through the life of the contract.
Yes, I know she was legally obligated. I get it. But the Redskins could very easily have let Granny out of her contract and sold that seat license to somebody else two minutes later. Unless the speculation the once legendary Redskins season ticket wait list has evaporated as a result of Snyder’s mismanagement and general assholery is true.
Whatever the case of the mysterious waiting list, this incident demonstrates little Danny Snyder’s modus operandi. Let’s face it, he spends more over Sunday coffee than the default judgement (about $66,000) against the sad sack Granny. The team was well within the law to pursue a judgment, but did they have to? They honestly couldn’t come up with any other solution? I find it hard to believe that the franchise would go freaking bankrupt with out this old broad’s money.
I like Clinton Portis, Jason Campbell, Cornelius Griffin and H.B. Blades. I have long admired Redskins fans — the Hogs, “Hail to the Redskins” and the way that the old RFK used to shake from ground to rafters when the fans really got going. Still, I hope they go 0-16 and we get to see vile little Danny cry like Cindy Brady in the owner’s box.
Mishaps, Mayhem and Misery to Actively Root for in the NFL Season
The 2009 NFL season is full bore upon us, full of predictions, power rankings, prevarications, prognostications and pretenders. Predictions? Always wrong. Power Rankings? Feh. Like the Grinch, I’m looking for the negative, reveling in anticipation of potential failures. Here are some massive miscues I’m hoping for:
1. The New England Patriots come back to earth. Patriots fans rationalize last year’s 11-5 record reflected one thing and one thing only: Tom Brady on the IR. The man who looks as comfortable on a runway at Fashion Week as he is on a gridiron, the modelizer in chief with the Hollywood good looks and silly hipster hats is back.
But will it really catapult New England back to the top of the pecking order?
Personally, I hope GQ Tom is healthy — no excuses from beantown this year. I wonder about the rest of the team. The offensive line, once a perfect stonewall around Giselle’s hubby, shows cracks and it’s possible his uni may get a wee dirty from time to time. The defense has lost too many players to count and is weak against the pass.
Meanwhile, sneaky Bill Belichick seems less evil. He used to be positively Cheney-esque and I honestly think opposing coaches caved against him for fear that he would reach down their throats and eat their still beating hearts at the 50 yard line. But between tearing up at Tedy Bruschi’s retirement and even occasionally smiling at training camp, Head Hoodie seems almost human.
2. The Minnesota Vikings get a big bite in the ass from Lady Karma. With all the coaching talent out there, with Bill Cowher, Brian Billick, Tony Dungy and Mike Shanahan out of work, and given the success of the bright young guys like Mike Tomlin, Ken Whisenhunt and John Harbaugh, I find it hard to imagine how the Vikings organization reflected and said, “Yeah, Brad Childress. He’s the guy to take this team to the next level and get us that elusive Lombardi Trophy. Yuppers.” As a southern friend of mine used to say, rilly?
This off-season, Childress created a bidding war against himself for the services of Brett Favre by publicly slavering over the 40 year old interception king. (Hey, I actually like Favre, so this is no knock on him). Childress obsessed like one of those adolescent girls fixated on the “Twilight” books. He begged and pleaded. He called. And called. And called. He had to have Favre; couldn’t win without Favre; it all came down to mighty Brett Favre. Then, with the evanescent Favre secured and cloaked in Minnesota purple, Childress sent his irreplacable QB out in a wildcat formation, whereupon the elder indispensable man committed an illegal crackback block, injuring Texans DB, Eugene Wilson in the process. In a meaningless pre-season game. The league fined Favre $10,000 for the hit. They should have fined Childress. $50,000 for being a dickhead.
3. The only thing worse that the Head Hoodie in New England is Hoodie Lite, Josh McDaniels, in Denver. He’s got all of the ego and none of the substance. McDaniels has alienated not only the fans, but his entire team in record speed. A petulant child with a multi-million dollar arm Jay Cutler may be, but he knew the Broncos ship was sinking the minute the ersatz Bellichick arrived in town.
To paraphrase Joan Cusack: just because I wear a hoodie with the sleeves cut off and draw up defenses on a legal pad doesn’t make me Bill Bellichick. Never will.
4. Presenting: Jerry Jones and his amazing punt-blocking videoscreens! Okay, so Jones spent $1.2 billion to build a new stadium and he wanted every bell and whistle available, and even a few whistles that hadn’t been invented yet. So he sent his minions into the future and they came back with a Deathstar sized HD videoscreen to suspend over the field. So fans could see the game without actually looking at the field in front of them where the Cowboys will actually play the games. I know Jones was trying to create an amazing multi-media, all-out visual and aural assault on every synapse in the brain of every fan in the stands. He was going for a wow factor beyond mere football and while it’s not my style, I kinda get it.
It was all grand until a jabeep free agent punter for Tennessee doinked a punt off the undercarriage of the videoboard. Not the regular punter for the Titans, mind you, nor in a regular season game. It was a free agent destined to for the slag heap who hit the videoboard. Jerr’Jones’ response? “Ah, that’ll never happen during a regular season game.” Really? Well, in case it does, the league has allowed for a do-over and I am fervently praying that we see at least a dozen balls bounce off that thing this season.
5. Little Danny Snyder’s crash and burn. He’s obnoxious, he’s cocky, he hangs out with Tom Cruise (which is just gross enough without continuing), and he never met an overpriced free-agent he didn’t like. This year, Snyder’s front office sued a little old lady long-time Redskins season-ticket holder who has fallen on hard economic times and couldn’t pay for her season tickets through the life of the contract.
Yes, I know she was legally obligated. I get it. But the Redskins could very easily have let Granny out of her contract and sold that seat license to somebody else two minutes later. Unless the speculation the once legendary Redskins season ticket wait list has evaporated as a result of Snyder’s mismanagement and general assholery is true.
Whatever the case of the mysterious waiting list, this incident demonstrates little Danny Snyder’s modus operandi. Let’s face it, he spends more over Sunday coffee than the default judgement (about $66,000) against the sad sack Granny. The team was well within the law to pursue a judgment, but did they have to? They honestly couldn’t come up with any other solution? I find it hard to believe that the franchise would go freaking bankrupt with out this old broad’s money.
I like Clinton Portis, Jason Campbell, Cornelius Griffin and H.B. Blades. I have long admired Redskins fans — the Hogs, “Hail to the Redskins” and the way that the old RFK used to shake from ground to rafters when the fans really got going. Still, I hope they go 0-16 and we get to see vile little Danny cry like Cindy Brady in the owner’s box.
Five Offensive Linemen Who Should Be in the Hall of Fame
From True/Slant on August 7, 2009:
The offensive line serves as a potent metaphor for a larger football team: if one lineman makes a mistake, the whole thing can fall apart. These men are the tone-setters for the entire offensive plan. Their lives are measured in inches, battles won in increments. Every play requires the timing of a swiss watch and movements complex as a Ballanchine ballet. They work in tight quarters with their enemy lined up close enough to smell.
There are just 34 of these modern era men in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. By way of contrast, there are 23 modern era quarterbacks enshrined in the Hall. Every time a QB is out on the field, there are five offensive linemen out there, so shouldn’t the ratio of offensive line players to quarterbacks read more closely to five-to-one? At least like two to one?
Thankfully, this weekend the great Minnesota Vikings guard Randall McDaniel will be inducted into the Hall, evening the score just a little bit. Here are five other men of the trenches who should be in the Hall of Fame:
1. Jerry Kramer, Green Bay Packers, 1958 to 1968. It actually gives me a physical pain when I think about Kramer’s absence from the Hall. I get a stabbing, nauseating pain when I think that one of the greatest guards to ever play the game in any era, for any team, is not there, a fact which diminishes the Hall itself. Jerry Kramer was the lead guard on the famous Lombardi era sweep and, essentially, blocked Paul Hornung into the Hall. He threw the most famous block perhaps in all of football history as Bart Starr went right behind him for the winning touchdown in the icebowl. Vince Lombardi said Kramer was the best guard working in football. Do you want to argue with coach Lombardi? I don’t. Kramer was the only guard selected for the NFL’s 50th Anniversary All-Time team, and the only member of that team not in the Hall. It’s a felony.
2. Bob Kuechenberg, Miami Dolphins, 1970 to 1983. Six times he was sent to the Pro Bowl and once he was a key contributor to an unbeaten team. Twice he held the Lombardi Trophy as a victor. The great Bob Lilly declared Kuecheberg one of the best linemen he had ever played against, after going up against him in Super Bowl VI. Yeah, yeah, I know that 1972 team can be annoying, reveling in the fact that they remain the only undefeated team in the modern era. I wish those guys would shut up and keep their champagne popping to themselves, too. Still, Kuechenberg is a no-brainer for the Hall.
3. Dermontti Dawson, Pittsburgh Steelers, 1988 to 2000. Unlike Kramer and Kuechenberg, Dawson never got to play on any truly transcendent teams (like the Pack of the ’60’s and the ‘72 Dolphins). He never got to fondle a LombardiTrophy. It doesn’t help that he assumed his position as the anchor of the Steelers offensive line immediately after the great Mike Webster retired. When it comes to the offensive line, you can’t rely on stats and numbers to bolster your arguments for or against a player’s induction: you had to have seen these guys to know. I watched probably every game of Dawson’s career and he had the most nimble, nifty feet of any center I’ve ever seen. He had the feet of a half-back, the body of a guard and the mind of a chessmaster. He was fast, graceful and explosive. His talent was jaw-dropping. It’s not his fault he snapped the ball to the likes of Bubby Brister for a number of years.
4. Russ Grimm, Washington Redskins, 1981 to 1991. Unlike Dawson, above, Russ Grimm probably suffers because of the level of talent around him. During the course of his 11 year career in D.C., Grimm was a member of the Hogs, the only O-Line in memory with such legion fans and cult popularity. Along with Grimm, the other original Hogs were, Mark May, Jeff Bostic, Joe Jacoby and George Starke. Also, along with Grimm, both Jacoby and May are worthy of Hall of Fame consideration. Their unit is considered one of the best offensive lines in the history of the game. When you watch old films of each of those three Redskins Super Bowl teams, you see each respective quarterback standing in a pocket with miles of space around him and running backs dashing through holes large enough to fit three hogs through. Grimm was crusty. Grimm was big. Grimm kept his own counsel. Grimm was also nearly impossible to beat.
5. Max Montoya, Cincinnati Bengals, 1979 to 1989; Los Angeles Raiders, 1990 to 1994. A Bengal? Really? Yes. I think that Montoya suffers from having played alongside the immovable object, the wondrous Anthony Munoz. Everybody’s star was outshone by Munoz’, but Montoya was a key element to the Bengals franchise’s only two Super Bowl appearances. Montoya and Munoz blocked Pete Johnson (Pete Johnson?) into 1,000 yard season and the Bengals to their first Super Bowl appearance in 1981. Then Montoya and Munoz repeated the trick for Icky Woods again in 1988. His name wasn’t the household name like Munoz, but Montoya deserves another look.
The offensive line serves as a potent metaphor for a larger football team: if one lineman makes a mistake, the whole thing can fall apart. These men are the tone-setters for the entire offensive plan. Their lives are measured in inches, battles won in increments. Every play requires the timing of a swiss watch and movements complex as a Ballanchine ballet. They work in tight quarters with their enemy lined up close enough to smell.
There are just 34 of these modern era men in the Pro Football Hall of Fame. By way of contrast, there are 23 modern era quarterbacks enshrined in the Hall. Every time a QB is out on the field, there are five offensive linemen out there, so shouldn’t the ratio of offensive line players to quarterbacks read more closely to five-to-one? At least like two to one?
Thankfully, this weekend the great Minnesota Vikings guard Randall McDaniel will be inducted into the Hall, evening the score just a little bit. Here are five other men of the trenches who should be in the Hall of Fame:
1. Jerry Kramer, Green Bay Packers, 1958 to 1968. It actually gives me a physical pain when I think about Kramer’s absence from the Hall. I get a stabbing, nauseating pain when I think that one of the greatest guards to ever play the game in any era, for any team, is not there, a fact which diminishes the Hall itself. Jerry Kramer was the lead guard on the famous Lombardi era sweep and, essentially, blocked Paul Hornung into the Hall. He threw the most famous block perhaps in all of football history as Bart Starr went right behind him for the winning touchdown in the icebowl. Vince Lombardi said Kramer was the best guard working in football. Do you want to argue with coach Lombardi? I don’t. Kramer was the only guard selected for the NFL’s 50th Anniversary All-Time team, and the only member of that team not in the Hall. It’s a felony.
2. Bob Kuechenberg, Miami Dolphins, 1970 to 1983. Six times he was sent to the Pro Bowl and once he was a key contributor to an unbeaten team. Twice he held the Lombardi Trophy as a victor. The great Bob Lilly declared Kuecheberg one of the best linemen he had ever played against, after going up against him in Super Bowl VI. Yeah, yeah, I know that 1972 team can be annoying, reveling in the fact that they remain the only undefeated team in the modern era. I wish those guys would shut up and keep their champagne popping to themselves, too. Still, Kuechenberg is a no-brainer for the Hall.
3. Dermontti Dawson, Pittsburgh Steelers, 1988 to 2000. Unlike Kramer and Kuechenberg, Dawson never got to play on any truly transcendent teams (like the Pack of the ’60’s and the ‘72 Dolphins). He never got to fondle a LombardiTrophy. It doesn’t help that he assumed his position as the anchor of the Steelers offensive line immediately after the great Mike Webster retired. When it comes to the offensive line, you can’t rely on stats and numbers to bolster your arguments for or against a player’s induction: you had to have seen these guys to know. I watched probably every game of Dawson’s career and he had the most nimble, nifty feet of any center I’ve ever seen. He had the feet of a half-back, the body of a guard and the mind of a chessmaster. He was fast, graceful and explosive. His talent was jaw-dropping. It’s not his fault he snapped the ball to the likes of Bubby Brister for a number of years.
4. Russ Grimm, Washington Redskins, 1981 to 1991. Unlike Dawson, above, Russ Grimm probably suffers because of the level of talent around him. During the course of his 11 year career in D.C., Grimm was a member of the Hogs, the only O-Line in memory with such legion fans and cult popularity. Along with Grimm, the other original Hogs were, Mark May, Jeff Bostic, Joe Jacoby and George Starke. Also, along with Grimm, both Jacoby and May are worthy of Hall of Fame consideration. Their unit is considered one of the best offensive lines in the history of the game. When you watch old films of each of those three Redskins Super Bowl teams, you see each respective quarterback standing in a pocket with miles of space around him and running backs dashing through holes large enough to fit three hogs through. Grimm was crusty. Grimm was big. Grimm kept his own counsel. Grimm was also nearly impossible to beat.
5. Max Montoya, Cincinnati Bengals, 1979 to 1989; Los Angeles Raiders, 1990 to 1994. A Bengal? Really? Yes. I think that Montoya suffers from having played alongside the immovable object, the wondrous Anthony Munoz. Everybody’s star was outshone by Munoz’, but Montoya was a key element to the Bengals franchise’s only two Super Bowl appearances. Montoya and Munoz blocked Pete Johnson (Pete Johnson?) into 1,000 yard season and the Bengals to their first Super Bowl appearance in 1981. Then Montoya and Munoz repeated the trick for Icky Woods again in 1988. His name wasn’t the household name like Munoz, but Montoya deserves another look.
LenDale White's New No Tequila Weight Loss Program
From True/Slant on August 3, 2009:
1,000 Shots of Tequila.
Or, Ask Dr. Fishbucket, the NFL Edition.
On Sunday, Sports Illustrated reported that LenDale White of the Tennessee Titans reported to camp more than 30 pounds lighter than last year. You sexy, svelte thang, LenDale.
LenDale’s secret? Weight Watchers? NutriSystem? The SouthBeach Diet? Liposuction? Nope. It’s a weight loss plan all of his own, LenDale’s Genius Weight Loss Diet, described in SI as follows:
“I really got to be honest,” White said. “It wasn’t a lot of major diet changes. (It was) watching what I drink. I was a big Patron consumer. … That’s what it was. I was drinking a lot, drank a lot of alcohol. I cut that out of my diet all the way. I don’t drink at all. I cut the drinking, I stopped drinking for six months. … It started falling off.”
Dr. Fishbucket is here with her handy abacus.
A quick google indicates that in order to lose one pound, a person needs to burn (or eliminate) 3,500 calories.
So, to yield a weight loss of 30 pounds, one must burn or cut 105,000 calories. Assuming all other factors remained the same for White, and that the only change was the tequila, he eliminated 105,000 calories of tequila this past off-season.
His preferred tequila is Patron (Dr. Fishbucket approves) which contains about 70 calories per ounce (or 105 calories per shot.)
105,000 calories in units of Patron then, equals 1,000 shots of tequila.
We can assume then, that from February, 2007 to August, 2008 LenDale drank 1,000 shots of tequila; whereas this winter and spring, he did not.
1,000 shots of tequila over an NFL off-season (approx. six months) equals about 167 shots per month.
Or 38 1/2 shots per week.
Or 5 1/2 shots a day.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
1,000 Shots of Tequila.
Or, Ask Dr. Fishbucket, the NFL Edition.
On Sunday, Sports Illustrated reported that LenDale White of the Tennessee Titans reported to camp more than 30 pounds lighter than last year. You sexy, svelte thang, LenDale.
LenDale’s secret? Weight Watchers? NutriSystem? The SouthBeach Diet? Liposuction? Nope. It’s a weight loss plan all of his own, LenDale’s Genius Weight Loss Diet, described in SI as follows:
“I really got to be honest,” White said. “It wasn’t a lot of major diet changes. (It was) watching what I drink. I was a big Patron consumer. … That’s what it was. I was drinking a lot, drank a lot of alcohol. I cut that out of my diet all the way. I don’t drink at all. I cut the drinking, I stopped drinking for six months. … It started falling off.”
Dr. Fishbucket is here with her handy abacus.
A quick google indicates that in order to lose one pound, a person needs to burn (or eliminate) 3,500 calories.
So, to yield a weight loss of 30 pounds, one must burn or cut 105,000 calories. Assuming all other factors remained the same for White, and that the only change was the tequila, he eliminated 105,000 calories of tequila this past off-season.
His preferred tequila is Patron (Dr. Fishbucket approves) which contains about 70 calories per ounce (or 105 calories per shot.)
105,000 calories in units of Patron then, equals 1,000 shots of tequila.
We can assume then, that from February, 2007 to August, 2008 LenDale drank 1,000 shots of tequila; whereas this winter and spring, he did not.
1,000 shots of tequila over an NFL off-season (approx. six months) equals about 167 shots per month.
Or 38 1/2 shots per week.
Or 5 1/2 shots a day.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Thoughts on Cooking, Sports and Michael Pollan
From True/Slant on August 2, 2009:
Why Lidia Bastianich Is More Like Candace Parker Than She Knows
Damn you, Michael Pollan. Just damn you for your New York Times Sunday magazine piece on food, cooking shows and how much, or how little, we all cook. In short, the essence of Pollan’s argument is that we cook less, watch more, and have essentially turned cooking into a spectator sport. What I found most interesting was Pollan’s take on the way competitive food shows are presented because I’ve been thinking about it for months. I watch a ridiculous amounts of sports programming, which I rationalize as being work. But I’m a cooking show junkie. I admit it, shows like Bravo’s “Top Chef” and the Food Network’s “Iron Chef America,” which bring together cooking and competition have me hooked. And Pollan knows why: they’re like crack for my sports jonesing heart and I am Iron Chef Mario Batali’s bitch.
It’s like Pollan crawled inside my brain when he wrote:
"Whether in the Kitchen Stadium or on “Chopped” or “The Next Food Network Star” or, over on Bravo, “Top Chef,” cooking in prime time is a form of athletic competition, drawing its visual and even aural vocabulary from “Monday Night Football.” On “Iron Chef America,” one of the Food Network’s biggest hits, the cookingcaster Alton Brown delivers a breathless (though always gently tongue-in-cheek) play by play and color commentary, as the iron chefs and their team of iron sous-chefs race the clock to peel, chop, slice, dice, mince, Cuisinart, mandoline, boil, double-boil, pan-sear, sauté, sous vide, deep-fry, pressure-cook, grill, deglaze, reduce and plate — this last a word I’m old enough to remember when it was a mere noun. A particularly dazzling display of chefly “knife skills” — a term bandied as freely on the Food Network as “passing game” or “slugging percentage” is on ESPN — will earn an instant replay: an onion minced in slo-mo. Can we get a camera on this, Alton Brown will ask in a hushed, this-must-be-golf tone of voice. It looks like Chef Flay’s going to try for a last-minute garnish grab before the clock runs out! Will he make it? [The buzzer sounds.] Yes!"
Oh yes, Michael, oh yes. I love it. I love the skill of the competitors. I love seeing creative and inventive chefs like Batali thrive under severe time constraints or given odd ingredients. I love examining the implicit strategies of each Iron Chef, worthy of the most complex NFL offensive gameplans. I love watching Top Chef contestants improvise like a great hockey winger taking advantage of a breakdown or flukey bounce. I love watching chefs and sous chefs work in tandem the way a great offensive line does. And just as much, I love watching a single chef banging it out of the park like Roger Maris. Clearly, these producers have learned how to package food shows by watching CBS’ March Madness coverage and Fox’s NFL coverage.
But it’s not just the structure and the competition. As much as those shows appeal to me, I grew up watching Julia Child teach American women how to cook. It was stripped down, elemental, educational cooking. I loved it. Even today, there remain a few chefs who work along Child’s model, with no bells and whistles. To me, Lidia Bastianich is a first ballot, unanimous Hall of Famer in the cooking world and her PBS cooking show, “Lidia’s Italy” is about as bare bones, old school, educational as you can get. So it’s not just about the flash and dash and ESPN-like production values. It’s about the food.
But why watch Lidia cook when I could actually, you know, be cooking? I watch her for the same reason I watch the Duke-UNC basketball games, and the same reason that I sit breathlessly rapt through wall to wall NFL coverage on Sundays from noon until midnight. You could kill every announcer on the planet, disappear every sports producer in North America, set up two cameras and a mike courtside and I’d still tune in to watch the UConn-Rutgers women’s basketball game. I’d tune in because those players and those teams can do things I can’t do. Yeah, I can play football or basketball and there’s nothing wrong with a rec league game of hoops or a three on three game of backyard football. And while I can run a fade route, I can’t run one like Larry Fitzgerald. I can play a game of one on one basketball, but I sure can’t ball like Candace Parker.
I watch Larry Fitz and Parker, not only for the competition, but for their excellence. The same is true for cooking greats.
I’m a good cook and I like to cook. I grew up making homeade ravioli and gnocchi and having spent decades up to my armpits in flour, eggs and cheese, I’ve even mastered them. But gnocchi and ravs are special occasion foods and I’m a regular, everyday cook. I’d like to think I have some skill in that arena; maybe even some panache and soul. But I’m still no Lidia.
I’m backyard superstar tossing a football around on a late summer evening. Lidia Bastianich is Joe Montana.
Why Lidia Bastianich Is More Like Candace Parker Than She Knows
Damn you, Michael Pollan. Just damn you for your New York Times Sunday magazine piece on food, cooking shows and how much, or how little, we all cook. In short, the essence of Pollan’s argument is that we cook less, watch more, and have essentially turned cooking into a spectator sport. What I found most interesting was Pollan’s take on the way competitive food shows are presented because I’ve been thinking about it for months. I watch a ridiculous amounts of sports programming, which I rationalize as being work. But I’m a cooking show junkie. I admit it, shows like Bravo’s “Top Chef” and the Food Network’s “Iron Chef America,” which bring together cooking and competition have me hooked. And Pollan knows why: they’re like crack for my sports jonesing heart and I am Iron Chef Mario Batali’s bitch.
It’s like Pollan crawled inside my brain when he wrote:
"Whether in the Kitchen Stadium or on “Chopped” or “The Next Food Network Star” or, over on Bravo, “Top Chef,” cooking in prime time is a form of athletic competition, drawing its visual and even aural vocabulary from “Monday Night Football.” On “Iron Chef America,” one of the Food Network’s biggest hits, the cookingcaster Alton Brown delivers a breathless (though always gently tongue-in-cheek) play by play and color commentary, as the iron chefs and their team of iron sous-chefs race the clock to peel, chop, slice, dice, mince, Cuisinart, mandoline, boil, double-boil, pan-sear, sauté, sous vide, deep-fry, pressure-cook, grill, deglaze, reduce and plate — this last a word I’m old enough to remember when it was a mere noun. A particularly dazzling display of chefly “knife skills” — a term bandied as freely on the Food Network as “passing game” or “slugging percentage” is on ESPN — will earn an instant replay: an onion minced in slo-mo. Can we get a camera on this, Alton Brown will ask in a hushed, this-must-be-golf tone of voice. It looks like Chef Flay’s going to try for a last-minute garnish grab before the clock runs out! Will he make it? [The buzzer sounds.] Yes!"
Oh yes, Michael, oh yes. I love it. I love the skill of the competitors. I love seeing creative and inventive chefs like Batali thrive under severe time constraints or given odd ingredients. I love examining the implicit strategies of each Iron Chef, worthy of the most complex NFL offensive gameplans. I love watching Top Chef contestants improvise like a great hockey winger taking advantage of a breakdown or flukey bounce. I love watching chefs and sous chefs work in tandem the way a great offensive line does. And just as much, I love watching a single chef banging it out of the park like Roger Maris. Clearly, these producers have learned how to package food shows by watching CBS’ March Madness coverage and Fox’s NFL coverage.
But it’s not just the structure and the competition. As much as those shows appeal to me, I grew up watching Julia Child teach American women how to cook. It was stripped down, elemental, educational cooking. I loved it. Even today, there remain a few chefs who work along Child’s model, with no bells and whistles. To me, Lidia Bastianich is a first ballot, unanimous Hall of Famer in the cooking world and her PBS cooking show, “Lidia’s Italy” is about as bare bones, old school, educational as you can get. So it’s not just about the flash and dash and ESPN-like production values. It’s about the food.
But why watch Lidia cook when I could actually, you know, be cooking? I watch her for the same reason I watch the Duke-UNC basketball games, and the same reason that I sit breathlessly rapt through wall to wall NFL coverage on Sundays from noon until midnight. You could kill every announcer on the planet, disappear every sports producer in North America, set up two cameras and a mike courtside and I’d still tune in to watch the UConn-Rutgers women’s basketball game. I’d tune in because those players and those teams can do things I can’t do. Yeah, I can play football or basketball and there’s nothing wrong with a rec league game of hoops or a three on three game of backyard football. And while I can run a fade route, I can’t run one like Larry Fitzgerald. I can play a game of one on one basketball, but I sure can’t ball like Candace Parker.
I watch Larry Fitz and Parker, not only for the competition, but for their excellence. The same is true for cooking greats.
I’m a good cook and I like to cook. I grew up making homeade ravioli and gnocchi and having spent decades up to my armpits in flour, eggs and cheese, I’ve even mastered them. But gnocchi and ravs are special occasion foods and I’m a regular, everyday cook. I’d like to think I have some skill in that arena; maybe even some panache and soul. But I’m still no Lidia.
I’m backyard superstar tossing a football around on a late summer evening. Lidia Bastianich is Joe Montana.
Tom Watson's Remarkable 2009 British Open Run
From True/Slant on July 22, 2009:
Still Basking in Tom Watson’s Glow
The summer of 2009 is shaping up to be unlike any summer I can remember, the season that will be remembered for the runners-up more than the winners, for the guys who won us over in defeat. It’s a pretty nifty trick.
First, sentimental favorite Kenny Perry came in second at the Masters. Then Phil Mickelson (and David Duval, for that matter) fell short at the U.S. Open at Bethpage Black. There was Andy Roddick’s epic match at Wimbledon that turned Roger Federer’s way after way too many hours at Centre Court. All of them were sentimental favorites, all of them were game and each one fought and scrapped until the bitter end, only to come up a hair shy.
But none of those guys can hold a candle to Tom Watson’s magnificent, magical performance turned heart-rending as he fell just one stroke, just one short putt, shy of winning the Claret Jug at the British Open at Turnberry, Scotland.
The course itself was dramatic enough, set right on the sea, as vicious winds plastered players trousers to their legs, blew drives hither and thither, nudged putts willy-nilly, and even drove one Eldrick Tiger Woods so batty that he missed the cut. But the British Open was not about who wasn’t there fighting through the back nine on Sunday, but rather, who was there.
And there was Tom Watson, a man born during the Truman Administration who was old enough to be drafted at the time of the Apollo 11 moon landing, sitting unexpectedly at the top of the leader board just a few months shy of his 60th birthday. Other golfers were visibly thrown off by the knee high roughs, bracing winds and rolling fairways, while Watson seemed to take it all in stride. The rhythm of his game never changed, his pace remained unperturbed. He got some great rolls. And some terrible ones. Through it all, he was as steady as a surgeon and about as methodical.
It seemed like Watson was going to break the spell of this, the summer of compelling ‘almosts’, until his putt rolled short on 18, and it all went to hell in the tie-break, giving the Open to Stewart Cink. Before that short putt, Watson’s fairway shot rolled long, longer than expected and longer than he hoped. Watson’s caddy, Neil Oxman told NPR’s Robert Seigel, “It’s just going to be what-ifs forever. What happens if we hit a nine-iron from the middle of the 18th fairway?”
Close only counts in horse-shoes. To which an old college buddy added hand-grenades and dancing.
Maybe Tom Watson has shown that close counts in sports in this weird summer, 2009.
At the very least, close is what I’ll remember. No offense to a fine golfer like Cink, but in a few years, I won’t remember that he won the Open. I will remember the wind and the rough, the knee high, wheat colored grasses, the sea, the lighthouse and a sky that looked low enough that the caddies might have lifted the pins to reach up and touch it. Mostly, I’ll remember the most enthralling four days of golf in memory provided by a great champion. Even now, with the sports news cycle moving as fast as the speed of sound, I’m still lingering over Watson’s performance. Maybe this time, almost was good enough.
Still Basking in Tom Watson’s Glow
The summer of 2009 is shaping up to be unlike any summer I can remember, the season that will be remembered for the runners-up more than the winners, for the guys who won us over in defeat. It’s a pretty nifty trick.
First, sentimental favorite Kenny Perry came in second at the Masters. Then Phil Mickelson (and David Duval, for that matter) fell short at the U.S. Open at Bethpage Black. There was Andy Roddick’s epic match at Wimbledon that turned Roger Federer’s way after way too many hours at Centre Court. All of them were sentimental favorites, all of them were game and each one fought and scrapped until the bitter end, only to come up a hair shy.
But none of those guys can hold a candle to Tom Watson’s magnificent, magical performance turned heart-rending as he fell just one stroke, just one short putt, shy of winning the Claret Jug at the British Open at Turnberry, Scotland.
The course itself was dramatic enough, set right on the sea, as vicious winds plastered players trousers to their legs, blew drives hither and thither, nudged putts willy-nilly, and even drove one Eldrick Tiger Woods so batty that he missed the cut. But the British Open was not about who wasn’t there fighting through the back nine on Sunday, but rather, who was there.
And there was Tom Watson, a man born during the Truman Administration who was old enough to be drafted at the time of the Apollo 11 moon landing, sitting unexpectedly at the top of the leader board just a few months shy of his 60th birthday. Other golfers were visibly thrown off by the knee high roughs, bracing winds and rolling fairways, while Watson seemed to take it all in stride. The rhythm of his game never changed, his pace remained unperturbed. He got some great rolls. And some terrible ones. Through it all, he was as steady as a surgeon and about as methodical.
It seemed like Watson was going to break the spell of this, the summer of compelling ‘almosts’, until his putt rolled short on 18, and it all went to hell in the tie-break, giving the Open to Stewart Cink. Before that short putt, Watson’s fairway shot rolled long, longer than expected and longer than he hoped. Watson’s caddy, Neil Oxman told NPR’s Robert Seigel, “It’s just going to be what-ifs forever. What happens if we hit a nine-iron from the middle of the 18th fairway?”
Close only counts in horse-shoes. To which an old college buddy added hand-grenades and dancing.
Maybe Tom Watson has shown that close counts in sports in this weird summer, 2009.
At the very least, close is what I’ll remember. No offense to a fine golfer like Cink, but in a few years, I won’t remember that he won the Open. I will remember the wind and the rough, the knee high, wheat colored grasses, the sea, the lighthouse and a sky that looked low enough that the caddies might have lifted the pins to reach up and touch it. Mostly, I’ll remember the most enthralling four days of golf in memory provided by a great champion. Even now, with the sports news cycle moving as fast as the speed of sound, I’m still lingering over Watson’s performance. Maybe this time, almost was good enough.
Thoughts on Running Barefoot
From True/Slant on July 12, 2009:
To Wear Shoes, or Not to Wear Shoes. That is the Question.
I run. I never refer to myself as a runner, because despite the fact that I run three to four times a week, I hate to run. And still, I run. I don’t run long distances like marathons or even half-marathons. The notion of running for four straight hours strikes me as a little unhinged, frankly. But I run three miles or five miles, depending on the day, my mood and the timing. Who cannot stake out 30 minutes or an hour for some vigorous exercise, I remind myself. Besides, it keeps me from starring in some health network or discovery channel show titled, “The Ass That Ate a Small City,” or ending up like one of those people who the fire department needs to cut out of their bathrooms. I see “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape” as a cautionary tale, so it’s three miles here, and five miles there.
The running does it’s job. I am not embarrassed to be seen in polite society.
But every step is torture. Sometimes I get a stitch. Sometimes my surgically reconstructed, titanium (just like the space shuttle!) ankle hurts. Other times, my knee, which is in need of surgical repair, hurts. Mostly, I sweat a lot and pant a lot. I try to focus on the music on my iPod and the river I run next to. It’s lovely really. I try not to swallow any of the swarms of gnats that populate the trail. I also have to concentrate in order to not be run over by neophytes on bikes who don’t realize that the trail works the same as the road — slow traffic on the right, pass on the left, and so on.
I don’t have fancy running clothes. Just some gym shorts, whatever t-shirt is clean and usually a ballcap. I’ve run in New Balance, in Asics and in Sauconys only to discover that New Balance shoes work best for me. It’s not an endorsement, just a personal foot thing. I’m as low-tech and low-maintenance as they come, and I don’t think I’ve even spent $100.00 on a pair of shoes.
Now, after all these years, I’m told I should go even lower-tech, get back to nature and run barefoot. Really? According to an article in “Wired” by Dylan Tweeney,
"Now, a small but growing body of research suggests that barefoot is the way adults should run, too. So, many runners have been shucking off the high-tech trainers in favor of naked feet — or minimalist footwear like Nike Free, the Newton All-Weather Trainer and the glove-like Vibram FiveFingers.
“People have been running barefoot for millions of years and it has only been since 1972 that people have been wearing shoes with thick, synthetic heels,” said Daniel Lieberman, a professor of human evolutionary biology at Harvard University."
The proponents, such as Lieberman, cite the fact that we evolved without shoes and our feet adapted accordingly. I don’t work at Harvard and I don’t mean to be contrary, but it is possible that we’ve also evolved and adapted to shoes over the last several centuries, too.
Besides, my feet are well-tended to and pretty tender. Even inside, I don’t like going barefoot.
Just take a look down the next time you’re walking to lunch or to get some coffee. It’s a minefield out there. Even without logging too may miles on nasty, funky city sidewalks, road surfaces are rough. I run most of my miles on a trail that is mixed — some dirt, some paved and some ash. It’s a little softer on the joints, but it’s also terribly uneven, strewn with pebbles, stones and, not to be gross, an extraordinary amount of goose shit. Although Mr. Tweeney does not site avian scat among his barefoot concerns, he did encounter some problems with road surface:
"My second barefoot run, on asphalt, went more poorly: I tore up the tip of my fourth toe on the rough surface and spent the rest of my (shod) run bleeding into my sock. That was enough to make the attraction of Vibram’s foot gloves clear: They give you much of the feeling of running barefoot, and give the same workout to your arches, Achilles tendons and calves — except you don’t have to worry about injuries from rough terrain."
And I wonder, might I hate running less in those “Five Finger” things (which look kinda like alien, space-age gloves for your feet)? Are they the miracle that I’ve been waiting for? The missing piece which will forever liberate me from the stitches and aches and allow me to run free, like a Little Leaguer rounding the bases? After all, Tweeney indicated that he learned to enjoy it. Plus, those Five Fingers things are freaky looking and it would be fun to get a rise out of those moronic bikers.
Who am I kidding? Nothing makes running easier. It’s meant to be torture, I think. Better the devil you know. I’m sticking with my worn out New Balances. At least until I get really desperate.
To read the whole article and watch the video, go to Wired here.
To Wear Shoes, or Not to Wear Shoes. That is the Question.
I run. I never refer to myself as a runner, because despite the fact that I run three to four times a week, I hate to run. And still, I run. I don’t run long distances like marathons or even half-marathons. The notion of running for four straight hours strikes me as a little unhinged, frankly. But I run three miles or five miles, depending on the day, my mood and the timing. Who cannot stake out 30 minutes or an hour for some vigorous exercise, I remind myself. Besides, it keeps me from starring in some health network or discovery channel show titled, “The Ass That Ate a Small City,” or ending up like one of those people who the fire department needs to cut out of their bathrooms. I see “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape” as a cautionary tale, so it’s three miles here, and five miles there.
The running does it’s job. I am not embarrassed to be seen in polite society.
But every step is torture. Sometimes I get a stitch. Sometimes my surgically reconstructed, titanium (just like the space shuttle!) ankle hurts. Other times, my knee, which is in need of surgical repair, hurts. Mostly, I sweat a lot and pant a lot. I try to focus on the music on my iPod and the river I run next to. It’s lovely really. I try not to swallow any of the swarms of gnats that populate the trail. I also have to concentrate in order to not be run over by neophytes on bikes who don’t realize that the trail works the same as the road — slow traffic on the right, pass on the left, and so on.
I don’t have fancy running clothes. Just some gym shorts, whatever t-shirt is clean and usually a ballcap. I’ve run in New Balance, in Asics and in Sauconys only to discover that New Balance shoes work best for me. It’s not an endorsement, just a personal foot thing. I’m as low-tech and low-maintenance as they come, and I don’t think I’ve even spent $100.00 on a pair of shoes.
Now, after all these years, I’m told I should go even lower-tech, get back to nature and run barefoot. Really? According to an article in “Wired” by Dylan Tweeney,
"Now, a small but growing body of research suggests that barefoot is the way adults should run, too. So, many runners have been shucking off the high-tech trainers in favor of naked feet — or minimalist footwear like Nike Free, the Newton All-Weather Trainer and the glove-like Vibram FiveFingers.
“People have been running barefoot for millions of years and it has only been since 1972 that people have been wearing shoes with thick, synthetic heels,” said Daniel Lieberman, a professor of human evolutionary biology at Harvard University."
The proponents, such as Lieberman, cite the fact that we evolved without shoes and our feet adapted accordingly. I don’t work at Harvard and I don’t mean to be contrary, but it is possible that we’ve also evolved and adapted to shoes over the last several centuries, too.
Besides, my feet are well-tended to and pretty tender. Even inside, I don’t like going barefoot.
Just take a look down the next time you’re walking to lunch or to get some coffee. It’s a minefield out there. Even without logging too may miles on nasty, funky city sidewalks, road surfaces are rough. I run most of my miles on a trail that is mixed — some dirt, some paved and some ash. It’s a little softer on the joints, but it’s also terribly uneven, strewn with pebbles, stones and, not to be gross, an extraordinary amount of goose shit. Although Mr. Tweeney does not site avian scat among his barefoot concerns, he did encounter some problems with road surface:
"My second barefoot run, on asphalt, went more poorly: I tore up the tip of my fourth toe on the rough surface and spent the rest of my (shod) run bleeding into my sock. That was enough to make the attraction of Vibram’s foot gloves clear: They give you much of the feeling of running barefoot, and give the same workout to your arches, Achilles tendons and calves — except you don’t have to worry about injuries from rough terrain."
And I wonder, might I hate running less in those “Five Finger” things (which look kinda like alien, space-age gloves for your feet)? Are they the miracle that I’ve been waiting for? The missing piece which will forever liberate me from the stitches and aches and allow me to run free, like a Little Leaguer rounding the bases? After all, Tweeney indicated that he learned to enjoy it. Plus, those Five Fingers things are freaky looking and it would be fun to get a rise out of those moronic bikers.
Who am I kidding? Nothing makes running easier. It’s meant to be torture, I think. Better the devil you know. I’m sticking with my worn out New Balances. At least until I get really desperate.
To read the whole article and watch the video, go to Wired here.
Woman on the Offensive Line Plays Last Football Game
From True/Slant on June 30, 2009
Rhonda Donahoo told me this wasn’t the way she wanted to end her football career. She had played the 2009 season against her doctor’s wishes, having already pushed her body past reasonable limits, so she knew the Pittsburgh Passion’s 27-17 loss at the D.C. Divas marked her final game in uniform. The playoff loss was just the third loss for this full-contact women’s football team in as many seasons, during the course of which they compiled an overall record of 27-3. The Divas advanced and will host the Boston Militia in the eastern conference championship game on July 11th, the winner of which will play in the IWFL (Independent Women’s Football League) Championship game in Austin, Texas on July 25th.
But Pittsburgh’s Rhonda Donahoo can put her shoulder pads in mothballs and place her banged up helmet on the mantle. She played her six year career on the offensive line, where bodies take and dish out some of the fiercest punishment on a football field and the endeavor has taken its toll.
There at the very beginning, Donahoo is one of the 11 active players who remain from that original 2003 Pittsburgh Passion roster. Back then, the team was affiliated with a different league, then the NWFA and these women, volunteer football players, raised money to get the team up and running (and continue to cultivate sponsors and fund-raise to this day). They were there for the first practice, the first scrimmage and the first game. They played through growing pains and rough years, when they were all really just figuring out how to play organized football. They’ve seen coaches come and go and have called four different Pittsburgh area fields their home turf.
In 2007, the squad largely reflected that original roster and, on a muggy July night in Nashville, they won the NWFA championship. Donahoo played that game with one knee sort of taped and banded into place — a jerry-rigged invention of a creative training staff catering to her desire to finish out the run on the field. One recent evening, she sat down with me and recounted the litany of injuries, but there were so many, I can’t remember them all and I’ve certainly forgotten some of the details. Following the 2007 championship, Donahoo hobbled into the sunset and underwent multiple surgeries. She was laid up for months. She knew she could never play football again, but hoped to resume some normal activities, like taking a spin on a bicycle, or just going for a long, aimless walk.
In 2008, the team switched leagues (from the NWFA to the IWFL) while Donahoo rehabbed and checked the scores; she just couldn’t bring herself to sit in the stands and watch. The Passion were undefeated through the regular season, but lost in the 2008 Eastern Conference Championship game in Chicago. Donahoo decided to give playing one more shot, to try to squeeze one more season out of her knees and ankles.
So she returned to the team in the winter of 2009, started every game at guard and was named an alternate to the IWFL all-star squad. A little over two weeks ago, with a playoff berth on the line, Donahoo played her thankless role on the offensive line, as the Passion beat the New York Sharks in an overtime thriller to end the regular season. With that, she had one more shot at a championship.
Of course, playoff seeding being what it is, Pittsburgh’s first test was to beat the D.C. Divas, their long time rival and the only team which had beaten them in 2009. Still, the team felt, or maybe they hoped, their wild victory in New York would be the springboard to another championship run, the last chance for Donahoo and some of the other original players to win a second title before focusing their energies on other endeavors. As Pittsburgh Steelers Hall of Fame coach Chuck Noll said, at some point, you have to get on with your life’s work.
The June 27th playoff game in suburban D.C. was one of missed opportunities for the Passion. With the teams slugging out a scoreless game through the 1st quarter, on the sidelines, I felt like Pittsburgh was winning the battle of attrition, when all of a sudden, D.C. was threatening to score from the Pittsburgh 10. But the Pittsburgh defense stiffened, led by Jen Dulski who hammered Diva quarterback Allyson Hamlin on a blitz, then made another tackle for no gain on a run. The ball went over on downs, but the Passion turned it right back over with a fumble. The Divas punched it in easily. It was just that kind of a night — one step forward, two steps back.
Pittsburgh hung in there, but made mistakes at key moments, while the Divas avoided big mistakes. After the Passion went up 10-7 early in the 3rd quarter on an Amanda Haeg scamper into the corner of the end zone, D.C. answered quickly, as Hamlin tossed a beauty of a fade route to Tara Stephenson for a touchdown. (I have to take a moment to point out that Hamlin and Stephenson run that fade pattern as well as any quarterback-wide out combination I’ve seen at any level. For real.) From there, D.C. cruised, ensuring that there would be no shot at a second title for Donahoo and the Passion.
I’ve spent a couple of seasons around the team. I’ve gotten to know them as football players and as people, too. There are always a handful of veterans threatening to retire; I’ve learned that sometimes they mean it and sometimes they don’t. But this year I get the eerie feeling a lot of these players have played their last games in black and gold.
Seasons end and players part ways, leaving behind team workouts, film sessions, practices, travel days and game day routines. The transition is always tough, but for returning players, the sting of cleaning out their lockers is balanced by the promise of another season still to come; fall workouts will be upon them before they know it. For those who have played their last game in uniform, the sense of loss can be overwhelming.
Just moments after the horn sounded the end of the game, the Pittsburgh players huddled together on the field and Donahoo knelt a few yards behind them, flanked by two teammates. I don’t know if she was felled by physical pain, exhaustion, overwhelming emotion, or, most likely, some combination of the three. Eventually, she pulled off her shoulder pads, pulled herself up, and joined her teammates. For the last time on a football field.
Later that night, over beers, she teared up when we talked about it being the end of the line. And then, as she always has, she became the life of the party, goofing off with total strangers in the suburban DC hotel bar, dancing, raising a ruckus and entertaining her teammates. Maybe that was the last time, too.
Rhonda Donahoo told me this wasn’t the way she wanted to end her football career. She had played the 2009 season against her doctor’s wishes, having already pushed her body past reasonable limits, so she knew the Pittsburgh Passion’s 27-17 loss at the D.C. Divas marked her final game in uniform. The playoff loss was just the third loss for this full-contact women’s football team in as many seasons, during the course of which they compiled an overall record of 27-3. The Divas advanced and will host the Boston Militia in the eastern conference championship game on July 11th, the winner of which will play in the IWFL (Independent Women’s Football League) Championship game in Austin, Texas on July 25th.
But Pittsburgh’s Rhonda Donahoo can put her shoulder pads in mothballs and place her banged up helmet on the mantle. She played her six year career on the offensive line, where bodies take and dish out some of the fiercest punishment on a football field and the endeavor has taken its toll.
There at the very beginning, Donahoo is one of the 11 active players who remain from that original 2003 Pittsburgh Passion roster. Back then, the team was affiliated with a different league, then the NWFA and these women, volunteer football players, raised money to get the team up and running (and continue to cultivate sponsors and fund-raise to this day). They were there for the first practice, the first scrimmage and the first game. They played through growing pains and rough years, when they were all really just figuring out how to play organized football. They’ve seen coaches come and go and have called four different Pittsburgh area fields their home turf.
In 2007, the squad largely reflected that original roster and, on a muggy July night in Nashville, they won the NWFA championship. Donahoo played that game with one knee sort of taped and banded into place — a jerry-rigged invention of a creative training staff catering to her desire to finish out the run on the field. One recent evening, she sat down with me and recounted the litany of injuries, but there were so many, I can’t remember them all and I’ve certainly forgotten some of the details. Following the 2007 championship, Donahoo hobbled into the sunset and underwent multiple surgeries. She was laid up for months. She knew she could never play football again, but hoped to resume some normal activities, like taking a spin on a bicycle, or just going for a long, aimless walk.
In 2008, the team switched leagues (from the NWFA to the IWFL) while Donahoo rehabbed and checked the scores; she just couldn’t bring herself to sit in the stands and watch. The Passion were undefeated through the regular season, but lost in the 2008 Eastern Conference Championship game in Chicago. Donahoo decided to give playing one more shot, to try to squeeze one more season out of her knees and ankles.
So she returned to the team in the winter of 2009, started every game at guard and was named an alternate to the IWFL all-star squad. A little over two weeks ago, with a playoff berth on the line, Donahoo played her thankless role on the offensive line, as the Passion beat the New York Sharks in an overtime thriller to end the regular season. With that, she had one more shot at a championship.
Of course, playoff seeding being what it is, Pittsburgh’s first test was to beat the D.C. Divas, their long time rival and the only team which had beaten them in 2009. Still, the team felt, or maybe they hoped, their wild victory in New York would be the springboard to another championship run, the last chance for Donahoo and some of the other original players to win a second title before focusing their energies on other endeavors. As Pittsburgh Steelers Hall of Fame coach Chuck Noll said, at some point, you have to get on with your life’s work.
The June 27th playoff game in suburban D.C. was one of missed opportunities for the Passion. With the teams slugging out a scoreless game through the 1st quarter, on the sidelines, I felt like Pittsburgh was winning the battle of attrition, when all of a sudden, D.C. was threatening to score from the Pittsburgh 10. But the Pittsburgh defense stiffened, led by Jen Dulski who hammered Diva quarterback Allyson Hamlin on a blitz, then made another tackle for no gain on a run. The ball went over on downs, but the Passion turned it right back over with a fumble. The Divas punched it in easily. It was just that kind of a night — one step forward, two steps back.
Pittsburgh hung in there, but made mistakes at key moments, while the Divas avoided big mistakes. After the Passion went up 10-7 early in the 3rd quarter on an Amanda Haeg scamper into the corner of the end zone, D.C. answered quickly, as Hamlin tossed a beauty of a fade route to Tara Stephenson for a touchdown. (I have to take a moment to point out that Hamlin and Stephenson run that fade pattern as well as any quarterback-wide out combination I’ve seen at any level. For real.) From there, D.C. cruised, ensuring that there would be no shot at a second title for Donahoo and the Passion.
I’ve spent a couple of seasons around the team. I’ve gotten to know them as football players and as people, too. There are always a handful of veterans threatening to retire; I’ve learned that sometimes they mean it and sometimes they don’t. But this year I get the eerie feeling a lot of these players have played their last games in black and gold.
Seasons end and players part ways, leaving behind team workouts, film sessions, practices, travel days and game day routines. The transition is always tough, but for returning players, the sting of cleaning out their lockers is balanced by the promise of another season still to come; fall workouts will be upon them before they know it. For those who have played their last game in uniform, the sense of loss can be overwhelming.
Just moments after the horn sounded the end of the game, the Pittsburgh players huddled together on the field and Donahoo knelt a few yards behind them, flanked by two teammates. I don’t know if she was felled by physical pain, exhaustion, overwhelming emotion, or, most likely, some combination of the three. Eventually, she pulled off her shoulder pads, pulled herself up, and joined her teammates. For the last time on a football field.
Later that night, over beers, she teared up when we talked about it being the end of the line. And then, as she always has, she became the life of the party, goofing off with total strangers in the suburban DC hotel bar, dancing, raising a ruckus and entertaining her teammates. Maybe that was the last time, too.
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