BrokenCowboy: Sports Views with a West Coast Bias

Separation of Church and Sport

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..."

-- The First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America

There's a movement that's been going on in American sports -- and possibly elsewhere, though I haven't been paying close enough attention to know for sure -- that simply has to stop. Far too many people have bought into the idea that when an important victory is won, the genuflection must begin. I was hoping for a while that the trend would run its course, that cooler heads, as they say, would prevail, but since the fire is only burning brighter, something has to be done. And if I'm the man who has to throw a bucket of common sense on the flames, so be it.

I'm not an expert on proselytizing, but my guess is that the rational for such displays goes something like this. An athlete wins a match and correctly realizes that on some level he should be grateful for being born with the athletic talent, mental acuity, and physical toughness to compete as a world class athlete. And so as he holds the jumbo check or sprays milk on throngs of admirers or leaps triumphantly from the stirrups, he decides to thank god for his abilities.

I'm fine with that part of it, as long as it's just an acknowledgement of a head start of sorts. But the problem begins when athletes deny their role in the process. I think I first noticed this when a young Michael Chang beat Ivan Lendl in a fourth round match that paved the way for his eventual championship at the 1989 French Open. Chang battled cramps and fatigue throughout the five-set match, and when he was interviewed afterwards he said, essentially, "That wasn't me out there. God was playing for me."

There are two obvious problems with this. First of all, God didn't hit a single lob, forehand, or backhand; that was all Chang. Second of all, why the hell is God interested in a tennis match in Paris, France? (If Satan was driving the car for Lendl, I'd understand, but I have no evidence to indicate that.) He has nothing better to do than to materialize in the body of a seventeen-year-old from San Diego? The very idea is preposterous, but Chang seemed to believe it. (And if, by the way, God really is interested in sports, if he really does feel like biding his time between prophets by inspiring athletic genius in an effort to spread the gospel, how exactly do you explain Muhammad Ali? Sandy Koufax? Why were these infidels allowed to prosper?)

Chang, of course, is not alone in this. Athletes everywhere strike this pose, telling all within earshot that God or Jesus Christ -- or even Jehovah -- made it all possible. Part of it probably reflects a desire to use their fifteen minutes to spread the word of God, but things are starting to get out of hand.

When Indianapolis Colts owner Jim Irsay was handed the bright, shiny trophy after his team had just won the AFC championship game two weeks ago, securing a ticket to the game's biggest game, he dropped this line: "As the humble leader of this organization, it's important to give all glory to God."

Last Sunday evening as Peyton Manning was being dipped in gold following his Superbowl win, Indianapolis head coach Tony Dungy gave an unexpected answer to an expected question about the social significance of his team's victory:

I tell you what. I'm proud to be representing African-American coaches, to be the first African-American to win this. It means an awful lot to our country. But again, more than anything, I've said it before, Lovie Smith and I, not only the first two African-Americans, but Christian coaches, showing that you can win doing it the Lord's way. We're more proud of that.

It was right about then that my head exploded. Without going into the fact that probably not a single Christian coach has languished in the Coordinator Desert, waiting for a head coaching position that would never come, let me point out the real reason that all this pisses me off.

Without question, I am a man of faith. My saints are Joe DiMaggio, Roberto Clemente, Muhammad Ali, and Magic Johnson. I worship in cathedrals that smell of popcorn and overpriced beer; I'm happiest when catching the spirit and speaking in tongues ("You da man!") when icons like Derek Jeter, Tiger Woods, or Kobe Bryant bring their travelling revival shows to town. I turn to the east at least five times a day to face my Mecca, Yankee Stadium, and affirm my devotion to the Pinstripes. And contrary to what I said earlier about proselytizing, I shamelessly use this space to spread the gospel of sport as often as I can.

I believe.

And so when Tony Dungy or Serena Williams or someone like that spreads faith across the purity of the playing field, I am offended. Imagine sitting in your church, whether the pews are made of smoothly polished oak or corrugated aluminum etched with seat numbers, and listening as an interloper casually says, "This service was nice, but it's really nothing compared to my religion; it pales in the face of my god."

So when I ask for a separation of church and sport, what I'm really saying is this: you pray your way, and I'll pray mine. Amen.

San Francisco Re-Treat

Jerry Rice retired today. I've never been a 49er fan, but I know greatness when I see it, so in a sense it's sad to see Rice go.

There will be those who will rank Jim Brown ahead of him in the discussion of the greatest football player of all time, and I won't pretend to be knowledgeable enough to weigh in on that discussion, but there can be no debate as to his place among his true peers, the wide receivers. There's Rice, there's a huge gap, and then there's everyone else.

The numbers are ridiculous. The top receivers in the game today, Randy Moss, Marvin Harrison, and Terrell Owens, would have to increase their current output and then keep at it for another seven to ten years in order to match what Rice has achieved. (For details on this, check out Norm Clayton.)

So Rice was great, and we'll likely never see another receiver remotely approach him. All of this we can agree on. But there is some contraversy connected with his retirement, and it has to do with the timing. The romantic idealists would have us believe that Rice should've retired years ago, in order to go out on top and preserve his legacy.

Normally I count myself as a romantic, an idealist, and even a sucker for nostalgia, but this idea is absolute nonsense. This tendency has developed recently, this desire to see our heroes leave when we think it's time, not when the athletes do.

We need look no further than Michael Jordan to find a perfect counter example to this. Sure, his time with the Wizards was forgettable, but you know what? I've already forgotten it. When I think of Michael Jordan, he's wearing a Bulls jersey and violently pumping his fists while Craig Ehlo crumples to a heap in the background. He's soaring through a sea of Lakers, nonchalantly flipping the rock from one hand to the other while checking his watch and taking a sip of his café latte before gently spinning the ball off the glass and into the net. And finally, he's stealing a ball from Karl Malone, then paralyzing Bryon Russell (push or no push) before stroking the purest jumper I've ever seen to win a sixth NBA title. That's Michael. Don't talk to me about a tarnished legacy.

So somehow we're to believe that since Rice played a few years beyond his prime, the brilliance of his overall career is somehow diminished? Are his records any less daunting? Will we forget what he accomplished? I guarantee you that we'll all forget that he ever suited up in Seattle or dallied in Denver, but we'll remember what counts.

As for me, I think I've still got a few years left, even if my best writing is behind me. I hope that's okay with you.

In Defense of T.O.

Here's an e-mail my buddy Rett sent me the other day about Terrel Owens and his current dispute with the Philadelphia Eagles:

First, T.O. is a bad poster child for the cause and he should not have gone on all the media outlets he could find to spout off.

But I think that the owners (the Man) have to love the way that fans and the media respond to these hold-out/request-for-contract-renegotiation disputes.

If the dispute between Reid and TO really stemmed from TO's refusal to appear at an autograph signing session -- I think his response is somewhat justified. My feeling would have been something like this -- You know what, Andy Reid, screw you, all I'm hearing from management is contract, contract, contract, we stick by and honor the contract, and so Andy if you want to get in my face about a non-contractual obligation -- that is, signing autographs -- which does nothing but put more money in management's pockets -- you can kiss my ass because why should I do anything outside the contract when you and management are saying that the contract defines the duties of our relationship?

I happen to agree with Rosenhaus that holding out is a player's right. All the contract says is that if T.O. wants to play for the NFL season (and seasons after that as per the contract) he has to do so with the Eagles at the set price. If he thinks things have changed that make it more beneficial for him to hold out -- god love 'em, go ahead and do it.

Also, I think Favre has a lot of nerve telling Jevon Walker to honor his 500K contract and get his ass to camp. I'd tell Favre that I'd be more than willing to report as long as he would guarantee that in the event I got career ending/pay-out threatening injury Favre would pay out an amount equal to the long term contract I could have expected when I became a FA w/o the injury.

It's easy telling someone to honor their contract when you're sitting on 10's of millions of $$$.

You know, in labor contracts management can and does negotiate "no strike" provisions with unions, and the NFL didn't contract for players getting fined or getting their contracts voided for holding out. So basically the NFL and the media can kiss ass if they want to talk about the holiness of contracts.

Rett earns the coveted spot at the head of my post today not because he's been my friend for almost twenty years, but because he's absolutely right and almost all of the mainstream media is wrong. (One noteable exception is Skip Bayless, who lays the blame squarely on the Eagles.)

Blaming T.O. is the easy way out, and the countless columns that have sprung up in newspapers around the country nailing Owens to the cross might as well have been written on auto-pilot. Let me see if I can duplicate the one that appeared in your Sunday paper:

• Terrell Owens is just another spoiled athlete.
• Terrell Owens signed a million-dollar contract, so he should honor it.
• Terrell Owens is greedy.
• His agent, Drew Rosenhaus, is equally greedy.
• Terrell Owens should focus on wins, not dollars.

These opinions are easy to write and easy to digest because no one could really disagree with any of them. Here's the problem, though. If you stop there, you're missing the point.

First of all, there's the contract issue. Rett hits the nail on the head when he points out that there's no reason a player shouldn't be able to re-negotiate his contract. None. The Eagles certainly don't have to listen to T.O.'s demands, but I don't think it's either unethical or selfish for him to make those demands, and here's why. Imagine that Owens had showed up in camp this summer and his skills had somehow diminished. Suddenly he had lost speed and quickness, and Donovan McNabb's passes started bouncing off of his previously sure hands. There could be any number of reasons for this -- natural decilne due to age, distraction caused by non-football issues, loss of focus stemming from an enormous bank account. Because this is football, the reason is not important.

So let's imagine that Owens suddenly finds himself sitting behind six other wide receivers on the Eagles' depth chart. Guess what happens to T.O? He gets cut, the majority of his contract is nullified, and no one sheds a single tear. Like no other sport in the world, the NFL eats its young, and yet the media and fans that grease the wheels actually pity the machine in situations like this. It boggles the mind.

The problem in judging players like Terrell Owens is that the media and fans tend to do so with midwestern grit in one hand and puritan gumption in the other. From this holier than possible vantage point, there's a hope that the player will say things like this:

I really feel like I have to work my tail off to earn my contract every day.
But what if he thinks he's already earned it? What if he sees the contract as a reward for the decades of hard work he's already put in? What if this is the pot at the end of a rainbow he's been chasing since his grandmother gave him a football for his sixth birthday? What then?

I don't need millions of dollars, nor do I deserve it. In fact, I've realized that I can live quite comfortably on $100,000 a year, so I've arranged to donate the remaining balance to Habitat for Humanity.
Again, how can we say that a professional athlete doesn't deserve his salary? In T.O.'s case, he's unquestionably one of the best in the world at what he does, and his unique skill at catching a football while 250-pound projectiles are flying at him contributes mightily to a billion-dollar business. And he doesn't deserve a small sliver of that pie?

I don't care how much I get paid or how many receptions I have, I just want to help my team win.
This one's the most ridiculous. You've got an individual (whether his name is Terrell Owens or Randy Moss or LeBron James) who has always -- always -- been the best player on his team by a long shot, and people are surprized that he thinks he should get the ball, surprized that he thinks he should be rewarded for his talents. I guarantee you that every one of these players who are labelled as "selfish" want to win in the worst way. Terrell Owens wants nothing more than to win the Super Bowl. His only problem is that he thinks he should be the one to lead his team to the promised land. And you know what? He's probably right.

Terrell Owens certainly isn't a saint, and that's where this whole thing really gets interesting. Did Eagle owner Jeffrey Lurie miss the highlights when Terrell Owens celebrated a touchdown by sprinting fifty yards and posing on the star in the middle of Texas Stadium a few years back? Did head coach Andy Reid forget about how Owens scolded 49er coach Steve Mariucci like a two-year-old on the sidelines during a game? Did quarterback Donovan McNabb somehow miss the scandal when Owens suggested that his San Francisco quarterback (Jeff García) was gay? Surely someone within the organization must have noticed when he negotiated and then backed out of a trade to Baltimore, essentially forcing the 49ers to deliver him to Philadelphia. Anyone?

No one has ever confused Terrell Owens with Arthur Ashe, but the Eagles were certainly willing to pretend for a while, as long as he was behaving. So last season he caught tons of balls, played with heart and energy, and helped make the Eagles favorites to win the Super Bowl until he was injured late in the year. And now that things have gotten rocky (or rather, now that things have turned out exactly as the rest of the sane world knew they would), the Eagles are crying foul. To paraphrase one of our generation's greatest poets, Flava Flav, they're dissin' Owens while he's butter that they put on their toast. I'm not sure, but I think Flava means that they can't have it both ways.

So don't blame Owens. This whole thing is just T.O. being T.O. The sad thing, though, is that even if the Eagles have already realized the error of their ways, it's too late.

Change of Plans

As it turns out, this site isn't going anywhere, dammitt! Essentially, I'm keeping this site active as an archive of my past writings and a link to where I'll currently be writing -- Only Baseball Matters. I'll still be writing about all kinds of things at OBM, so I encourage you to continue reading what I have to say. And don't be shy -- feel free to jump into the conversation.

Anyway, click here to read my thoughts on this weekend's NFL draft. Maurice Clarrett? The Broncos were kidding, right?

Also, if you'd like to cut out the middle man, add this to your bookmark list and you'll get straight to my corner of OBM:
http://www.onlybaseballmatters.com/archives/waddles_author.php

Don't Believe the Hype

It's not that I don't like the Superbowl, because that would be, well, un-American. It's just that I've seen the man behind the curtain, so I'm not as impressed by the pyrotechnics as I used to be.

My problem with the Superbowl is that it doesn't really matter which teams are involved. The game itself is bigger than any of the players or teams involved, and we've gotten to the point where it doesn't really matter what happens on the field or which teams are playing.

On a cold Sunday afternoon in Pennsylvania, the New England Patriots and Philadelphia Eagles won separate battles to advance to Superbowl Next. Anticipation will build over the next two weeks, and for good reason. If New England wins, they'll place themselves alongside the Cowboys, 49ers, and Steelers in the pantheon of NFL dynasties. If Philadelphia wins, the city could explode; if they lose, the city will likely implode. It should be an interesting matchup.

But is an interesting matchup even necessary? Imagine that the NFL decided to forgo the current playoff system and hold a Superbowl lottery instead. The team with the best regular season record would receive the most ping-pong balls, and the worst team would get only one. The league could hold a one-hour Superbowl Lottery special -- imagine the drama! -- during which the world would hold its breath as Paul Tagliabue pulled two envelopes from a giant fishbowl. Voilá! "It's my pleasure to announce that the competing teams in Superbowl XXXIX will be NFC's Detroit Lions and the AFC's Kansas City Chiefs! See you in Jacksonville!!"

My question is this. Would anyone care? The hype drives the game; the game doesn't create the hype, no matter who's playing. Sure, there have been a handful of signature moments in recent memory -- a young Brett Favre racing helmetless in joyous disbelief after throwing his first Superbowl touchdown; an old John Elway helicoptering through the air for a key first down that would transform his legacy; Joe Montana driving the 49ers down the field in the closing minutes, then hitting John Taylor with a Superbowl-winning bullet -- but it was only last year that the halftime show was bigger news than the game. We'll see what happens this year.

And by the way, isn't about time for the NFL to ditch the Roman numerals? Most people can deal with the X's and V's, but things will get confusing next year when the big game suddenly becomes a big t-shirt -- Superbowl XL. And what about forty years from now? Is America ready for Superbowl LXXVII? Superbowl XCIV?

Don't worry, though. We here at the Cowboy have some ideas to clear up the situation.

1. Just use the number. Would it be so terrible to call it Superbowl 39?
2. If that makes it seem too ordinary, do like every other sporting league ever and call it the 2005 Superbowl.

But if they're using Roman numerals just to confuse everyone, they can do much, much better.

3. Binary. Nothing but zeroes and ones. This year, we'd have Superbowl 100111.
4. Hexadecimal. The league will surely go this route if they're looking to save money on engraving services. Superbowl XXXIX would magically become Superbowl 27. In three years we'd be getting ready for Superbowl 2A. Don't tell me that wouldn't sell t-shirts like crazy.

Four Simple Truths

Aside from an unhealthy devotion to fantasy football, I have to admit that I’ve lost interest in the NFL over the last few years. Now that the playoffs have started, however, I find myself being drawn back to the game. Thankfully, there some things about the NFL that never, ever change. Here’s a list that I call the “Four Simple Truths of the NFL.” Enjoy.

1. Rookie Quarterbacks Cannot Win in the NFL
I think it’s safe to say that the most physically and mentally demanding jobs in all of professional sports is playing quarterback in the NFL. It’s simply not possible for a rookie to be successful in this position. In addition to the incredible jump in speed and size of the defenses he’ll be facing, the rookie quarterback also has to read ten or fifteen different types of coverage that he never saw in college. Plus, the offensive playbook looks like War and Peace, as compared to college’s Old Man and the Sea. The rookie quarterback cannot win in the NFL.

And then there’s Ben Roethlisberger. All he’s done this year is win all thirteen of his starts under center, a record for a rookie. He’s been efficient all season long and avoided making big mistakes, but most importantly he led the Steelers to a league-best record of 15-1. Okay, maybe rookie quarterbacks can win in the NFL...

2. Mike Shanahan and Mike Holmgren are Coaching Geniuses
Without question, Mikes Shanahan and Holmgren possess two of the more brilliant football minds in the NFL. After Shanahan’s first season (8-8) in Denver, he turned the team around and went 39-9 over the next three years, winning the Superbowl twice while transforming John Elway’s legacy. Holmgren, meanwhile, won 75 games and a Superbowl during his seven years at the helm of the Green Bay Packers. He molded Brett Favre into a Hall of Fame quarterback and brought one of the league’s marquee franchises back to glory. Shanahan and Holmgren are geniuses, better than everyone else.

Really? Let’s take a closer look. Since 1999, Shanahan’s first year without Elway and Holmgren’s first season in Seattle, these guys have been decidedly average. Shanny’s record sits at 54-42, and Holmgren’s even worse at 50-46. Neither man has won a playoff game; following last week’s losses their combined postseason record is 0-6. Hmm. Maybe Elway and Favre were the real geniuses...

3. You Can’t Beat the Packers at Lambeau Field in the Playoffs
There’s no place like Lambeau Field. It’s football’s answer to Yankee Stadium, but it’s in a small town. Season tickets are left in wills, fans volunteer to shovel out the bleachers after snow storms, and there’s the frozen tundra. Throw in Brett Favre, who’s unbeatable in cold weather games (41° or below), and there’s really no need to play the games. The Pack is a sure thing.

Well, not anymore. After Green Bay was crushed by the Minnesota Vikings (a team which had lost nine straight outdoor games), it marked the second time in three years that the Packers had lost a home playoff game. Also, it was the second straight cold weather game that Favre had lost. Could it be that Favre is just another quarterback? Is Lambeau just a field? Are the Packers just another mediocre team? It all sounds like blasphemy, but it just might be true.

4. Mediocre Teams Get Crushed in the Playoffs
Every season there’s a mad rush in the closing weeks of the regular season as a pack of mediocre teams scramble for the last few remaining playoff spots in each conference. It makes for some interesting storylines, and it allows the networks to manufacture interest for a Week 17 matchup between two 8-7 teams, but it’s really all a colossal waste of time. The postseason is merciless. These teams that barely slide into the playoffs are always immediately dispatched by the superior teams which await them. Always.

Well, not always. Last week two of the NFL’s more enigmatic teams, the St. Louis Rams and the Minnesota Vikings, both won road playoff games. Both teams finished the regular season at 8-8, the very definition of mediocrity, but that didn’t seem to matter last weekend. Might mediocrity prevail again this weekend against the top-seeded Falcons and Eagles? Who the hell knows.

So there you have it. Now that you know all you need to know about the NFL, feel free to call your friends over, order some pizza, crack open a few beverages, and enjoy the games this weekend. Just don’t forget about the Four Simple Truths.

Put the Needle on the Record

It's typically called the coaching carousel, but the better analogy is probably musical chairs.  Either way, it's begun. 

A few weeks ago, the first big domino fell when Ron Zook was mercifully fired from his position with the Florida Gators, opening up a glamour job in one of the nation's premiere conferences.  Steve Spurrier was expected to walk in off the golf course and saunter into his old office in Gainesville. 

But then Lou Holtz stepped down (Retired?  Maybe not...) from his post at South Carolina, and within five minutes or so the Gamecocks swooped in and hired Spurrier.  Florida looked ready to hire the newest boy wonder, Utah's Urban Meyer. 

Out west, Stanford axed Buddy Teevens and immediately looked south with a covetous eye cast on USC offensive coordinator Norm Chow.  The Washington Huskies were also in the market for a new coach, and Cal's Jeff Tedford was on everyone's list of candidates.  Meanwhile, in the NFL, the Browns grew tired of Butch Davis and sent him packing.

Basically, business as usual in the high stakes world of football coaching.

And then all hell broke loose when Notre Dame threw Tyrone Willingham under the bus.  (And then there were two, by the way...)  When the golden throne of the Golden Dome is placed in our circle of musical chairs, the game obviously changes.  Florida no longer appears to have a shot at Meyer, as he seems destined for Notre Dame.  Others will likely be considered, but since Meyer spent a few years coaching in South Bend under Bob Davies, the job is probably his if he wants it.

But before we stop the music and send everyone scrambling, let's take a closer look at what happened with Willingham in Notre Dame.  He got out of the gate with a misleading 8-0 mark during his first year there, but a lot of things went wrong after that.  His teams won only thirteen more games over the next two plus seasons, while losing fifteen, including three crushing losses to chief rival USC.  Even so, Willingham was fired too soon.

He was only three years into a five-year contract, and his recruiting classes were only just beginning to contribute.  Coaches are typically given more time to shape a program in their own vision, but Willingham wasn't allowed that luxury.  It should be noted that Willingham's predecessor, Bob Davies, had a similar mark after three seasons but was allowed to complete his five-year contract.  But since Davies is partially responsible for Notre Dame's current situation, maybe they just didn't want to make the same mistake twice.

I have a problem, though, with something that Notre Dame athletic director Kevin White mentioned during his Tuesday press conference.  "From Sunday through Friday our football program has exceeded all expectations, in every way.  But on Saturday, we struggled."  A translation: it's nice that the boys are doing a good job in the classroom and working towards their degrees, but the bottom line is that Notre Dame is a football school, and Saturday outweighs the rest of the week.

I understand that Notre Dame football is bigger than life, and that to a certain extent the school is defined by its football team, isn't Sunday through Friday at least a little important?  It seems to me that if the team was exceeding all expectations in those areas, maybe they could've given Willingham a chance to improve what was happening on Saturdays.  He at least deserved the two years remaining on his contract.

Not everyone agrees.  Apparently a group of students had planned a Tuesday night rally calling for Willingham's firing.  Hopefully they stayed in and did some studying instead.  The good folks at NDNation.com lauded the university for showing the courage to demand excellence in both academics and athletics.  Nice.

But the good thing about all this is that now I can go back to rooting against Notre Dame.  Already, the world seems like a happier place.

It's Just a Fantasy

"It's just a fantasy,
It's not the real thing.
Sometimes a fantasy,
Is all you need."

For fear of losing your respect, I'll withhold the "author" of those lyrics...

But what it brings to mind is the NFL. There was a time in my life when I burned for NFL Sundays. Like most American sports fans, I mindlessly migrated to my couch each Sunday morning, and usually didn't get up until late afternoon after six hours of football. The NFL never threatened my love for baseball or college basketball, but it was close.

After a few years of this, my enthusiasm for professional football waned, and eventually I lost interest completely.

And then four years ago I saw the light. Fantasy Football.

For the first time in almost five years, the NFL was interesting again, but in a completely different way. For one thing, this year I have two favorite teams: Sound and Fury, which plays in a league called Chasing Trujillo, and Cobra Kai Dojo, which is in the League of Extraordinary Idiots.

My old favorite team? I still follow them, but it's different now. A couple of weeks ago they were clinging to a four- or five-point lead over Pittsburgh with less than two minutes to play. The Steelers moved the ball inside the five-yard line, and I found myself rooting like crazy for them to score, even though it would mean certain defeat for my old favorites. Pittsburgh's Jerome Bettis, you see, moonlights for my Cobra Kai Dojo team, and I really needed him to score a touchdown. He did, and I loved it.

Fantasy football has been widely criticized for moments like this. Detractors claim that it takes the focus away from the team and even chips away at fan loyalty. Damn right, it does. And so what?

Now, I'm in control of my team instead of just a passive fan. I still listen to sports radio and watch ESPN and comb the internet hoping for player news, but now when a player blows out a knee, I can do something about it. Thomas Jones expected to miss a few games? No problem, I'll just grab another running back. Koren Robinson about to be suspended? That's alright, I've still got Torry Holt.

I play fantasy baseball and basketball, but neither of those pursuits has altered my love of those two sports. Instead, they've given me a way to benefit from all of the information and statistics filling my skull. Not so with football.

I don't really need the NFL, only its statistics.

A couple of examples. I was somewhat surprized to notice today that the Carolina Panthers have won only a single game this season. That's an interesting bit of trivia, but what really matters is that Jake Delhomme, a back-up quarterback for my Cobra Kai squad, tossed three touchdown passes today.

New England's loss last week made big news since it snapped some type of streak, but what concerned me was that Cory Dillon -- whom I started on BOTH of my teams -- didn't play.

My teams are performing well so far. Sound and Fury is the highest scoring team in its league and won easily this week. Cobra Kai Dojo plays in a much more competitive league, but I'm still in position to make the playoffs, which would be nice. The Dojo will get a win this week if Mike Vanderjagt doesn't score more than eight points on Monday night. I'll keep you posted.

I realize that for most sports fans this makes no sense, but to me it's quite simple. You root for your team, I'll root for mine -- both of them. Go Dojo, Go Fury! It's not the real thing, but it's all I need.

The Bruschi Brothers

A college buddy of mine was in town on business for a couple of days last week, and his schedule was open enough for us to have dinner on Thursday night. We chose Legends, a local sports bar where we could grab a burger and a beer while watching the NFL's Opening Night, a clash between the Indianapolis Colts and the reigning Super Bowl champs, the New England Patriots.

Legends is located down near the shore on 2nd Street in Long Beach, and you can probably find a sports bar just like it in your town without breaking a sweat. Stepping into the bar from the street, your senses are bombarded from all sides. First there's the noise -- it's much louder inside than out on the street, and it took a moment for my ears and speech to adjust to the overwhelming din of voices and cheering. As we waited for a table to clear I scanned the walls where television monitors and sports memorabilia competed for space. It had been at least a few years since I had last been inside this establishment, and although the autographed jerseys and Long Beach Grand Prix posters looked familiar, I noted that the bulky televisions had been replaced by sleek, high-definition flat screen monitors. For some reason I found myself wondering about a bill for fifty HD televisions. Two hundred grand? Three? Not surprizingly, our waitress was young, pretty, and wearing a tight t-shirt. Erik and I both ordered burgers. I added a Rolling Rock, and he went for his usual: Jack on the rocks.

We hadn't seen each other since a wedding two years ago, so we were more interested in catching up than watching the Colts and Pats, but we found ourselves occasionally drawn in by the crowd.

(A quick note here. It's my guess that if you wandered into a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon in Green Bay or Denver or Kansas City, you'd find that 97% of the patrons would be cheering for the home team. This isn't the case in Los Angeles, for two reasons. First, there hasn't been a home team here for ten years, so an entire generation of football fans has grown up without any prenatal allegiance, which has led to a unique situation. Remember how the knock on the Red Sox used to be twenty-five guys, twenty-five cabs? Well, here we've got thirty-two teams, thirty-two fan clubs. The second reason is that LA is a town of transplants -- myself included -- so there have always been supporters of distant teams, even before the Raiders and Rams skipped town.)

Which brings us back to the crowd. As our conversation jumped from college memories to pennant races and back again, we were often interrupted by sudden bursts of raucous cheering from one side or the other. Based on these outbursts the game appeared to be competitive, and a squint at the scoreboard in the corner of the nearest monitor confirmed this suspicion. The nearest and most vocal fans were two twenty-somethings who were for the Patriots and wore matching Tedy Bruschi jerseys, home and away. The road jersey had his girlfriend sitting next to him. She didn't have a jersey, but she made up for it with a flowering vine tattooed across the small of her back.

Erik and I did our best to soldier on in the face of this sideshow, but our sentences often broke off as a roar erupted and we'd see the Bruschi Brothers celebrating with fist pumps and high fives, and then a replay would show a tiny Tom Brady tossing a touchdown pass into the corner of the endzone. Minutes later, another explosion from the crowd, but this time the Bruschi Brothers stayed in their seats, pounding the bar and cursing the replayed image of Peyton Manning's scoring throw.

I had absolutely no interest in this game, but I was completely involved in The Passion of the Bruschis. Their incredible intensity, their rapid swings from misery to ecstasy, even their matching jerseys, all spoke to me, and even while I envied their complete connection with the game, I was also thankful that I was completely free to relax with my meal.

And then came the closing minutes. Erik and I abandoned our conversation and watched as Manning and the Colts struck quickly and moved down the field for what would certainly be either a winning touchdown or a tying field goal. With each completed pass or darting run, one or the other Bruschi would angrily slam his open palm upon the bar, punctuating the cheers of the surrounding Colts fans. Finally, the Colts arrived at their final option, a field goal attempt from forty-eight yards out. As Mike Vanderjagt lined up a few yards behind the line of scrimmage, preparing to stride into a ball that would surely rise over the lineman and split the uprights, the Bruschi Brothers readied as well. They leaned forward in their seats, both certainly sending prayers heaven-ward.

When Vanderjagt's kick fell off to the right, the celebration was remarkable. There were others in the bar cheering the New England win, but no one was quite as happy as the Bruschis. The road jersey leaned down and grabbed his girl, squeezing her as if they had just gotten engaged, and perhaps they had. The home jersey, left alone, again cursed the television, this time in sheer joy. He then pulled his jersey over his head to reveal a Red Sox batting practice jersey -- Shea Hillenbrand. As his brother held his best girl in a swaying embrace, Hillenbrand (née Bruschi) turned to another monitor and another team that needed his help. His Sox were down 7-0 in the eighth.

I turned back to Erik. "What were we talking about?"

RunRickyRun

Six months after I graduated from college, I was offered a job teaching middle school English. I accepted, and I'm still in the same spot thirteen years later. I realize that this is not the norm; most of my college friends have changed jobs (and even careers) several times in the past thirteen years. People do what they do, and when they stop seeing the challenge or the relevance in their work, they look for a new situation. Simple, right?

Enter Ricky Williams (visit his site), running back, Miami Dolphins. At only twenty-seven years of age, just as his career was arcing into its prime, the enagmatic Williams has decided to retire from the game of football. Like a lot of people, Williams felt it was time to walk away from a career that was no longer fulfilling. The difference here, of course, is that Williams is walking away from millions upon millions of dollars. Dan Le Batard of the Miami Herald does an excellent job describing Williams and his decision, so I have only a few things to add.

Williams is planning to live his life seeking "the truth," and right now he doesn't see football as a part of that truth. Yes, this sounds a bit hokey, kind of like David Carradine walking the earth in Kung Fu, but who among us wouldn't like to seek the truth?

For the past five years I've seen Ricky Williams as a curiosity -- an odd football player, but still just a football player. In the last twenty-four hours, he's suddenly become interesting, and I look forward to hearing about the truth that he finds. Keep running, Ricky.