Living the Dream

I wrote some time ago about how I'm working two jobs to help pay down bills and pay for extravagances, like washing machines from Craigslist and groceries. I'm still working the two jobs, and it is just about as much fun as you can imagine. I'm also, you might remember, trying to write another book, publish one of the ones I've finished and "fix" a couple of others that I want to publish. Oh, and I'm teaching myself Latin. You know, easy shit. Plus, I've been trying to lead the glorious Roman armies into Egypt and conquer them, but that's been slowed a bit by Egypt's development of atomic weapons. Civilization is very much historically accurate, why do you ask?

But, because I've had so much free time on my hands, I decided I should coach my son's soccer team. Because nothing says "I've got WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS" like directing a bunch of 7- and 6-year old kids to run around like fools on a field of grass every Saturday.

I had originally signed up to be the coach in the beginning of the season, but someone screwed up (probably me, but I'll never take the blame!) and had me set for Wednesday night practices. This, at the time, was impossible because I had to work at the book store on Wednesday nights, pretty much every week. When I told the people in the league this, they said fine, found someone else, and then, for reasons that are still a mystery to me, rescheduled my son to be on a team that practiced Thursday nights.

Oh, and they made me assistant coach. Without letting me know.

So, the first Thursday rolls around, and I'm not there (because I'm working two jobs) and my wife is fielding a thousand angry phone calls from people wondering why the fuck no coach has shown up to teach their kid how to kick a ball. Because, let's be honest, Under-8 Youth Soccer is not exactly the UEFA cup; kicking is about all they do.

I wrote to the league commissioner, wondering what the fuck was up, and he said that, since I had expressed interest in coaching before, he thought I would positively love being an assistant.

Now, I positively love tits. I positively love blow jobs. And I positively love rum. Coaching soccer? Not so much my thing.


Oh, sure, I played soccer. I was good at soccer. But, when I was playing, I was a goalie. I went through goalie drills. I didn't go through all the drills for midfielders and forwards and defensemen. Yes, I knew what they were, but I couldn't really teach them.

So, the commish took me off being an assistant coach. There was much rejoicing.

And then...the coach quit. You could also read this as "And then...the universe decided to have itself (another) good laugh at my expense (once more)."

Reluctantly, I kind of took over the coaching of the team. I mean, someone had to think of the children, right? For once? Since I had been through the "coaches clinic" (three hours of my life which I will never get back and for which I was not nearly drunk enough), I figured I could step up and help out. It was...almost...fun. Some of the kids actually showed up to practice. Some of them came to games, too. It was...actually...nice. I made friends with some of the other coaches on other teams. I actually got along with the referees--mostly because they were high school kids who were volunteering their time. Also, they were pretty cool and they weren't douchebags with the calls.

There is one guy, though, who is an A-Prime cocksucker. He's bald and I'd wager 2-1 that he's got a dick like a sparrow poking out from between his thighs. He also only calls handballs on the kids wearing the green jerseys, despite the fact that one time I actually saw a midfielder grab a ball and spike it to the ground like a fucking volleyball and play on. Since we were up several goals, I was able to contain my rage and not get asked to leave the sidelines.

I still mentally insulted several generations of his ancestry, convincing myself that they were all tiny-dicked, bald cocksuckers. Apples don't fall far from trees, you know.

I was worried that the kids would kind of suck, like not skills-wise, but be little assholes. Because I'm crotchety like that. Get off my lawn and all that.

Pleasantly, the kids are all pretty nice; it's the parents that I can't stand. They talk about "Soccer Moms" and "NASCAR dads" in political circles, but I haven't seen any of those. Mostly I've had to deal with Douchebag Dads and Methlab Moms.


One of the first practices, I had the kids trying to pass the ball back and forth to each other, about five yards apart. I looked over, and one of the dads was on the sidelines...doing push-ups. Uh...you see...he was...bored...I guess...and...yeah.

He's since stopped with the upper-body exercises to pass time; instead, he sits on the sidelines dicking around with his iphone throughout practice. Fine. Whatever. Just keep your douchery away from me, sir.

Overall, it's been fun. And, this past weekend, my kid almost scored a goal. He even started having fun and said that he wishes soccer season would never end. Ha, little scamp...I see someone has been getting into daddy's rum supplies.

And now my daughter thinks that she might give soccer another go. Joyous.

I just wish that the parents would remember to bring snacks for the coach, too. It's a little embarrassing to be standing there with my mouth watering over the rice crispy treats and Capri suns. Cherry is my favorite flavor (hint hint).

If only I had a second source of income where I could purchase such luxuries as marshmallow and puffed-rice snack treats along with foil envelopes of flavored juice drinks...

I Don't Hate the Steelers

But I've got two weeks to learn!

Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Vol. XCVI

In 1985, a great travesty was afflicted upon this nation. I am speaking, of course, of the discordant din that bled forth from our radio speakers, piercing the ears of the nation's youth, insinuating itself into their brains, and poisoning their minds.

Some people called it "The Superbowl Shuffle."

I call it "Six Minutes of Hell."

As an aside, let's not ask my wife what she calls "Six Minutes of Hell."

*ahem*

Anyway, if anyone has every been curious as to how some gangly kid from northeast Indiana could become a Green Bay Packers fan, this is it. Before this travesty of ear rape was unleashed upon the greater masses, prior to this cacophony of musical masturbation, I was fairly ambivalent toward professional football. After being constantly assaulted by this auditory pack of Dickwolves, I knew only one thing: I would, from henceforth, hate the motherfucking Chicago Bears.

Because of my location, most of my classmates climbed aboard the Bears' bandwagon that year--you know, like most Bears fans--and this song was played, over and over and over. Ad nauseam, which is Latin for "I'm going throw up if I hear that fucking 'Super Bowl Shuffle' one more time!" Just searching for it on the interwebs has incensed me in ways that I didn't think possible, or at least in ways that had slumbered deep within me since...Thursday afternoon.

And so, if you must know, gentle sportsfan, why it is that I am a Green Bay Packers fan, this is it. I knew nothing more than that I hated the Bears. In order to make that hate deliciously complete, I sought out their greatest rivals and rooted for them. The hapless Lions couldn't allow me to fully embrace my hatred; no more could the Minnesota Vikings, though I would pull for both teams against the Bears.

The logical answer to my Bears hatred was the Green Bay Packers, and this was long before Purple Voldemort poisoned the air with his camera-whoring and 5,000 season-ending interceptions. Before the Ole Gunslinger was out there, like a kid, just having fun. Before the Packers even remembered that there was a post-season. I rooted for them.

And so that's why, this weekend, this Sunday afternoon, my hatred will be focused like a finely-honed blade, focused solely against Jay-sus and his band of soft-brained miscreants, this wretched hive of scum and villany. Oh sure, it was nice to see the Packers destroy the Vikings and Purple Voldemort twice this year. It was delicious to see their season implode. It was most satisfying to see him slink off into the sunset, his tiny peezer between his legs, but all of that will be moot come Sunday afternoon. Then it will be full, unadulterated Bears hate.

And I'll be saying this. Early and often.

Futuite Ursos!
Pronounced: "Foo-too-ee-tay Oor-sohs!"


Delicious hate in the hovertext

Aside from the football team, however, bears are pretty fucking awesome.

Resume Time!

That's re-zoom-aye time, not ree-soom time. Time hasn't stopped. The sex hasn't been THAT good. Wax-flying-out-of-ears good yes, but not all-time-has-stopped-with-my-orgasm good.

It seems as though it's time for me to polish up ye olde resume because my ideal job has just come open. No, no, not Scarlett Johansson's personal Man-Bra. I'm talking more sportsy stuff and less cupping ginormous tits in my large and capable palms.

With the fallout of the NCAA doing their best to kill USC's football program, there has been a cleaning out of the athletic department at Southern California (sorry, this is the real USC, not the one with all the Cocks). This has included the athletic director who allowed the violations infractions to occur under his watch, who was given his marching orders earlier in the week. The real news is that Pat Haden has taken over as the new Athletic Director at USC.

Why is this important? Well, because Pat Haden--up until Tuesday--was one of the announcers for NBC for Notre Dame football games. And now that there's a vacancy, they should naturally look to fill that hole with ME.

Take note. There are LOTS of people who could use me to fill their holes. *ahem*

Anyway, just think about it. I do love me some Notre Dame football. And, we'll all admit that when it comes to being a Go-Getter, I'm not in any danger of having that title hung around my neck. So, here's a job where I work Saturdays for one quarter of the year and all I do is talk about football and the greatness and glory of Notre Dame. And really, since it's just home games, I only work every other Saturday for one quarter of the year. I can do that. I can probably provide some fine bits of stories about when I was a student at Notre Dame. That's got to be better than having a USC guy in the booth, right?

Plus, my voice would stretch from one end of this fine nation of ours to the other, and also overseas. Nothing could go wrong there!

If this doesn't work out, I don't know what I'll do. I think, possibly, the best job for me would to do something like what Kevin Smith does now. No, not make shitty movies, anyone can do that (see, Shyamalan, M. Night). Smith has this thing where he tours the country, stopping at college campuses and talking to the audience for a few hours about...nothing, really. Just stories and anecdotes from his life. He takes questions, he answers them in long, rambling, irreverently humorous stories.

I can do that.

I can twist damned near anything around to some strange happening during the earlier years of my life. Not only that, but I'm going to guess that college kids would really appreciate my retelling of the time I smashed my ex-fiancee's face into the shower wall while trying to have shower sex, or the time I pissed my pants while trying to get gas, or how my mom killed my dog. I'm sure any of those would be met with uproarious laughter and heavy applause and as many blow jobs from coeds as I could handle!

In the meantime, if that doesn't work out, I'll just submit my resume to NBC sports and the University of Notre Dame. And I need to brush up on the spread option wing whateverthefuck new offense ND is going to have this year.

And I should probably work on not saying "fuck" so much.

Thank You, South Africa!

Today is the World Cup final! No matter what, we're getting a new champion! Someone who has never hoisted the trophy before will do it for the very first time, and that's exciting.

Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net

On behalf of the writers, editors and artists at Vita Brevis, I want to thank South Africa for hosting a marvelous tournament! Sure, you're six or seven hours ahead of us, thus making some of the times of the matches a little difficult to plan around, but you've done a marvelous job hosting. While others (*ahem* the French) hated your vuvuzelas, I loved them. I hope that Brazil can provide something equally as entertaining and annoying in 2014!

And just think...when this is done, it's only six weeks until college football season arrives! Hooray!!!!

Nostalgic Patriotism

I took last Friday off, which is why there's a lapse in the Latin lesson. That, and I was busy having sex on Thursday night and, while I felt plenty inspired, I also felt plenty breathless. Not to mention warm and fuzzy, sweaty and spent, drunk on the ecstasy of a post-coital glow.

So, I took Friday off.

I took Friday off so that I could watch the World Cup match. I spent ninety minutes sitting on the edge of my seat, hanging on every cross, tackle, corner and free kick. I went from ecstatic to angry in a fraction of a second. I bemoaned our lack of defense in the first half and praised our beautifully synced offense in the second half.



I love soccer. For a moment, I felt akin to our Continental brethren, taking time off work just to watch a soccer match. Sure, there wasn't any drinking, and there was very little singing, but I still felt a connection with millions of other people around the world for a little bit. I even wondered how long it would be before someone blamed the Bush administration for the terrible call that negated Edu's goal, leaving us in a 2-2 draw. I mean, if it worked for why Chicago's political corruption and violent streets lost the Olympics, it certainly must work for terrible officiating in the World Cup, right?

I won't be taking today off, however, even though I want to sit in a bar packed full of dozens of other soccer fans hanging on every play as our eyes dart back and forth between the U.S. match and the English match. Two screens, two outcomes, four teams wondering how it will play out, millions of fans ready to celebrate or bemoan the results.

Since my company has a distinct French flair about it, they relax the rules slightly during World Cup time, even if Les Bleus are the talk of the town for all the wrong reasons. I'm just wondering if they can set up a room where we can watch both the England match and the U.S. match. Nirvana, splayed out on separate projection screens.

Something strange happens whenever the World Cup rolls around: I get nostalgically patriotic.



One of the reasons why I love soccer is I played it in high school. My friend Nate talked me out onto the pitch one afternoon. At the time, soccer was a club sport in Indiana, so anyone could come and play. Practices were considered meetings, and games were...well, activities, I guess. I had never played it other than in Freshman gym class, when I learned that heading the ball--especially an older ball, that was made out of concrete and allowed to harden to the consistency of granite--was a painful experience.

However, when I went out onto the pitch, and ran my first line down the right side of the field, I was instantly and rapaciously in love. It was exhausting, I was soaked both with my sweat and with the misty rain that hung in the air, but I was a soccer convert.

I would go on to play several summers with some friends at various parks and pitches around my home, either at my high school or up the road in Fort Wayne. For a while, I would play over the lunch hour at Notre Dame, but a combination of shin splints, fatigue and my advisor being none-too-pleased that I disappeared for an hour plus during the middle of the day three days a week--and then had the audacity to want to eat lunch, too!--ended my playing career. I played a couple more intramural games for the chemistry department at ND...but that ended badly, thanks to an obnoxious bitch's comments. Anyway, not to toot my own horn (I do have a wife, after all, plus I'm not as flexible as I once was), but I was a pretty decent player. At least by rural Indiana standards. I was even better once I finally got medication to help get my asthma under control and I could build up stamina!

I don't want to say that I'm a naturally-gifted athlete, because anyone who has looked at me recently would burst into tears laughing at that notion, but I have always been able to pick up a game fairly easily. Continuing and sustaining that interest has always been the difficu--hold on, gotta go check Facebook for any updates.

But, when I watch the U.S. competing in the World Cup, I like to sit and fantasize. If I had been given an opportunity to play soccer sometime before my junior year of high school, I think I could have excelled. Could I have made the U.S. team? I don't know. For a while, it seemed like if you had American blood in you and could kick a ball, you were on the team. God knows I certainly have the zeal for it.

This is when my fantasies really start taking over. If I was good enough to play for the U.S. team, maybe I could have played in Europe--certainly not the EPL, but one of the lower leagues perhaps. I could have toured the cities and nations I wanted to, seen the sights and enjoyed myself. I could have traveled with the U.S. team, as well. I could have sated the travel and tourism bug that has always been with me. Oh, what could have been. Nostalgia.

And, when I watch our side, I feel a deep sense of pride for the team. They're representing our nation, and though most people here ignore them--I won't get into my thoughts on that topic, mostly because it will probably offend--they're still out there, playing and trying to earn respect. Perhaps not in the eyes of their countrymen who are more content to sit back and slurp Busch Light and watch stock cars driving in an oval for four hours. But, hey, soccer is so boring, right?

/tangent

But, win or lose, or draw, I still feel proud to watch the team compete. Herein rests the patriotism. It's an honor to represent your country in a World Cup. It's an honor that, nowadays, I would have loved to experience.

Too bad the rest of the country doesn't feel the same.

A Flagon of Ale and Forgetfulness, Please

I know everybody loves sports posts and because there are just so few blogs out there in cyberspace dedicated to sports, I thought I'd do a quick little one here on a Saturday. I mean, seriously...no one has an opinion or seven million on sports in this country?

Anyway, this little gem comes from The House Rock Built, which is a Notre Dame football blog. It's appropriate for today, since today is the day Notre Dame and Navy square off in their annual tilt. So, enjoy the video.

Delete the Wikipedia page...

There's a bunch more over at The House Rock Built. If you're a Notre Dame fan, you'll appreciate them all. If you're not, I'd still recommend the video from the week after ND lost to USC, mostly because we've all been sad clowns and tried to forget our misery via mini candy bars before. Plus, the music on the video is R.E.M.

And, since it's Navy weekend, that usually means that stupid ass college football fans start bitching about how Notre Dame is scheduling weak service academy teams in order to pad their BCS resume. Most of these dipshits are ACC fans, so they wouldn't know a football team if it slapped them in the face. First of all, how is this different from the one or two Division I-AA schools that you schedule every year in order to pad your numbers just to make it to a bowl game? Oh, that's right, Navy is Division I-A. My apologies to the USNA.

Second, Notre Dame and Navy have a long history together. During WWII, a sort of perfect storm erupted over South Bend, IN. Young men (Notre Dame was not co-ed at that point) were being sent off to Europe and the Pacific to fight our enemies and protect our shores and defending our allies from tyranny and totalitarianism. This meant fewer students were on campus, and the lack of students meant a lack of funds, putting a huge financial burden on the school.

Now, as the branches of the military were swelling with more and more recruits and enlistees, there was a pressing need to train officers to command these men in the course of battle. Notre Dame's president, Fr. Hugh O'Donnell, seeing this as, perhaps, a way of solving the cash crunch, opened Notre Dame's doors to serve as an officer training school. He first approached the army, who politely declined. However, Admiral Chester Nimitz liked the idea and immediately took Fr. O'Donnell up on the offer. Notre Dame then became a training facility for officers in the US Navy. The cash crunch was solved a the school and the navy got to train their soldiers. Both parties were happy.

Nimitz (who has a street named after him in South Bend...I used to live off it) and O'Donnell then agreed that Notre Dame and Navy should play football every year. O'Donnell promised that Notre Dame would always keep a spot open for Navy on the football schedule. Sixty-three years later, and we're still upholding that promise (the current series is scheduled until at least 2016, and will be renewed again when it's time). Yes, the luster has come off the football program at Navy, however it is still a rivalry game. Not so much like the hated rivals of Michigan and USC, but a rivalry borne of mutual respect and friendship. Do the two schools want to beat each other to a pulp during each game? Absolutely. But after the game is over, we shake hands, joke a little bit, congratulate one another on a hard-fought game, and promise to see one another next year.

So, to cocksuckers like John Feinstein, who whines about how Notre Dame is a bully for scheduling an overmatched Navy team every year, you can just shut up, eat dick, and maybe--just maybe--take a little time out of your daily need to make up for your tiny dick and have a little respect for a time-honored traditional football game between two friendly rivals.

Alright, Irish. Let's go! Beat Navy! Make it 45 in a row because, as we saw above, 2007 never happened!

Also a little note. Monday will mark one of those really rare occurrences in the universe: I will actually be rooting against Indiana basketball. Why? Because my alma mater will be playing them in an exhibition game, that's why. Do I expect the purple pumas of St. Joseph's College to beat Indiana? No. But then again, no one expected LeMoyne to beat Syracuse, either.

Go Pumas! Beat Hoosiers!

Is There Room for One More on the Bandwagon?

Hey, I hear there's some kind of big football game tonight...Liverpool vs. Chelsea. It's the Beatles vs Bill Clinton's daughter???

Okay, okay...I know it's the Super Bowl--and besides, that game was played last night--and all week long, you've all been like "Indefatigable One, now that both your favorite college basketball teams suck ass, who are you rooting for in the Big Game?"
I've thought about it...some. Maybe. Here's a secret about yours truly: I played Dragon Quest VIII last year instead of watching the Giants upset the Patriots. Part of it was because I was so pissed that Green Bay wasn't in the game that I avoided it. Better to leave the dagger hanging in the wound rather than twisting it around, know what I'm saying? The other reason was that I really had no interest in either team.

Same goes for tonight, but since you people are threatening to rouse some rabble, I figured I'd make a choice. So, I'm pulling for Arizona.

What? Didn't I root for Pittsburgh when they played Seattle? Yes, yes I did. I think Pittsburgh is a fine organization and that Mike Tomlin is a fantastic coach. I'm a little jealous that he is in Pittsburgh and not Green Bay--oh sure, he was never a candidate for the job, but a fellow can dream, right?

Yes, I realize that Arizona employs Matt Leinart, he who crushed my dreams in 2003 when he was illegally pushed into the endzone and all. However, I do root for the underdogs every so often (unless they beat my favorite team in order to get to the Super Bowl--screw you, Eli Manning), so I figure why not throw my fanship behind the Cardinals, who haven't won a championship since they were in Chicago in 1947. Wait...a team from Chicago that hasn't won a championship in forever? Perish the thought.

Anyway, the real reason why I'm rooting for Arizona over Pittsburgh is simple: Arizona has more former Notre Dame players on their roster (2 to 0) than does Pittsburgh. It's that simple. Plus, Mathdude--professed lover of the Cardinals, best team ever...yeah, yeah, yeah--is one of my blog followers and Beckeye--the only person who regularly comments that is a Steelers fan (that I know of)--isn't. Yep. I'm complicated like that.

There's a term for people like me. What is it? Oh, right. Whore.

*sigh*

Sometimes...I hate being right.



No, I take that back. I love being right. It does depress me sometimes, though.

Batter Up!

So, today, baseball starts its "second season", or what I like to call, "the only part I really give a damn about and which will probably cause me to curse a lot...more". Everyone--and I mean, everyone--seems to think that the Scrubs can shuffle off 100 Years of Infortitude and bring the World Series trophy back to Macondo Wrigley. Despite the well-worn Die-Hard Cubs Fan card in my wallet, I ain't drinking the Blue Kool-Aid served up by Sweet Lou just yet.

That being said, let me offer up my prognostications--the way I'd like to see it happen, and the way I think it will happen. First, let's trip delightfully off to that fantasy world I like to visit every once in a while. We'll call it Matt Land.

In Matt Land, this is how I see things working out:

NLDS:
Cubs over Dodgers in four
Phillies sweep Brewers

ALDS:
Angels beat Red Sox in four
White Sox over Rays in five

NLCS:
Cubs beat Phillies in six

ALCS:
White Sox beat Angels in six

World Series:
Cubs sweep Sox, I dance naked somewhere

Now, I'm going to set the crack pipe down and tell you how it's really going to happen:

NLDS:
Phillies beat Brewers in four
Dodgers beat Cubs in four

ALDS:
Angels beat Red Sox in four
Rays beat White Sox in four

NLCS:
Dodgers over Phillies in six

ALDS:
Angels over Rays in five

World Series:
Angels over Dodgers in seven

I'm not one to believe in curses, but I know the Cubs' faithful do. It's not that I don't think the team is talented, it's just that I think the grind of the long season is beginning to wear on the Cubs, especially their starting pitchers. If the Cubs lose today, it's over. They'll start to panic because there's all this pressure put up on them, and then they'll pop under it. I hope I'm wrong; I'd love to be wrong. I just can't see it.

I think the Brewers expended too much energy to get to the playoffs and will be rolled under the Phillies. The Brew-crew has no pitching outside of some portly future Yankee named Sabathia as Sheets has been less than remarkable in the past couple of weeks of the season--an injured arm might have something to do with that.

The Dodgers, I think, are built for the post season, and Joe Torre has experience and a sort of post-season magic about him. The Dodgers are in the playoffs, and the Yankees aren't. Coincidence? Probably not. The late-season acquisition of Manny might have helped. The Phils, I think, are a bit underwhelming, as well--they finished just a couple of games ahead of the Brewers, and the Brewers are the Wild Card winner.

In the AL, sorry Sox fans, but the Red version has some issues with Beckett not being 100%. Yeah, you have some quality pitchers not named Beckett, but at the same time, those guys are well-worn. Also, you're missing a big bat in the middle of the line-up, which means Ortiz isn't going to see a decent pitch during a clutch situation. The White version has had to play three different teams in three different days in order to get into the playoffs. Fatigue will wear them down, and the Rays are still riding their feel-good high into the first round. Not to mention, Bud Selig and the World Wide Leader both hate Ozzie Guillen, so they're going to make sure that the Sox don't get far while he's still at the helm. I said I don't believe in curses; conspiracies involving Bud Selig and the World Wide Leader, I'm all aboard on those.

This will all be undone by the Angels, who are a quality team. Scioscia has the team playing like a team, and, sure, they didn't have much of a threat from the AL West--the ACC football conference of MLB--but they've been on cruise control for a long time. Oh, yeah, and they have a solid bullpen.

As for the Scrubs...yeah...everyone has a bad century every once in a while. Prepare to enter your second.

Emotional Desolation

Oh, hey. How are you doing? Have a long week? Glad that the weekend's here? Yeah, it's supposed to be nice weather. Got any plans? That sounds like fun.

Me? Oh, you know, the usual. A little tired. Was up late last night and all but--fuck you Ted Thompson!

That's right. I'm an emotional wreck because of you and that cheesedick you call a head coach. Mark Murphy, where's the open arms? Huh? Where are they? You know what...here's $25 million. You three go away for ever.

And Brett...you are dead to me, sir. I was all prepared for you to go to the Vikings. I was like, "Hey, I like Purple" and "I used to fuck a girl from Minnesota" and "Now Eric and I can be buddies bffs" and "Man, I 'm going to have to find a hat with horns and some fake blond braids. This will be fun." Then I made that horn sound that the fans in Minnesota blow all the time. You know, the one that sounds like a horny humpback whale out looking for some play? That one.

And then rumors of Tampa Bay abounded and I was like "Hey, that's alright. Jon Gruden has some ties to Notre Dame. That'd be cool" and "Tampa Bay has some hot cheerleaders" and "Heh heh, they're pirates. Farrrrrrrrrrrrrrve. Heh heh."

And someone was even like, "Hey, Dolphins need a quarterback" and after I threw up in my mouth a little, I was like, "Well, my best friend the Eye Doctor is a Dolphins fan...maybe we can comiserate..."

But then it happened. You went to the Jets, Brett. The J E T S Jets Jets Jets. Just End The Season Jets Jets Jets. Dude. Come on. Rip my heart out of my chest and punt it across the room, and then it can slide down the wall and land in the trash can. Thanks Laura Powers Brett.

I even tried to justify it. I was like "Hey, they're green" and "Kevin wore a Jets jacket on the Wonder Years" and "Fucking Jets. Jesus I hate the fucking Jets." Yeah, that didn't work out so well. Don't you remember a few years ago, Brett, when you were poised to go into the playoffs with homefield throughout, and then you rolled into Giants Stadium to play the hapless Jets and they pasted you 41-3 and dropped you to the third seed and you bowed out to Dogslayer Michael Vick? Yeah. You totally just went and made out with Jimbo.

So, I should turn back to my old team, right? Oh fuck that. The collection of bumblefuckery that is the front office down to the head coach in Green Bay deserves my scorn and disdain. I hope you've got your resumes brushed off and updated, fellas, because the first losing season (or the end of this one), you'll either be run out of town on a rail or your heads will be served on a silver platter, Salome-style.

Ugh, so here I wander, teamless, the wide plains of Gorgoroth stretching out around me. The wind is bitter and bleak. Tiny grains of sand pelt my skin, raising knobby red whelts in their wake. To whom do I turn? I guess the easy answer would be the Colts, since I grew up in Indiana, but they've always been more like that second team to root for, that kid in class who tries real hard but never gets it right, but you still pat them on the head and say "Nice job, Jimmy." Plus, they don't fully articulate my disdain for the Bears--though with the Sex Cannon at the helm...or the Neckbeard--take your pick--hating the Bears is akin to disliking a Pop Warner league team.

I'm distraught, and it's all your fault, Ted Thompson. Hitch your wagon to the Titanic (sorry Hap, that was beautifully put, so I'm thieving it) or Charon's ferry or a dog turd laying in the sun drying up and getting hard. The Packers are dead to me, too. At least until Aaron Rogers gets hurt and Brian Brohm takes over (week three?). Ugh. At least college football starts soon. Oh, Jesus, that's right. Well, how long until basketball season? Fuck.

Let the Games Begin

Okay, I haven't done a sports post in a long time, party because some people were whining about it, and partly because it's baseball and MLS season here. While I love soccer, not many people give a damn about it here in the states, and pretty much the rest of the world plays soccer during the winter. So, there you go. The soccer of any import isn't being played now, and what am I going to do with baseball? Tell you how the Cubs will find a new and inventive way of screwing it up this year? Place odds on whom the next Bartman will be? With football season just over the horizon, I thought maybe I'd do a few quick little stories that have popped up recently. You might have heard a few of them. One of them is about a guy named Brett. Screw you, Milwaukee Bait and switch, baby. The first entry is about the Cubs, mostly because they're rolling off a four game sweep in which they dominated the Milwaukee Brewers. I really don't have too much against Milwaukee, and despite the title, I kind of like them (Jesus, they're the Brewers...how can you truly hate them? Their mascot makes beer and happiness!), and they play in one of the finest ballparks in the majors. Still, screw you, Milwaukee. Nothing like seeing your hopes disappear in one second and suddenly turn into five games back in another. I think the true joy in all of this is that I read some obnoxious White Sox fan talking about how, after the series in which the central leaders in both leagues were playing the second place teams, only one of the Chicago teams would still be in the lead. I guess he was right. So, I guess I should be saying, "Screw you, stupid White Sox blogger!"

I'm a Sports Radio Whore It's true. I'll admit it. And here's why. All summer long, I have faithfully been listening to the two AM stations here in the Triangle, 850 the Buzz and 620 the Bull. The big draw was 850 had Bomani Jones covering their afternoon drive home time slot, and I've been enjoying his take on things since he was writing for the World Wide Leader. Well, now he's down here, and I've been loving it. Unfortunately, Friday is his last day, and August 4th we get ACC Douchebag David Glenn back. It wouldn't be so bad if Glenn wasn't a horrific ACC Homer (I get it, he loves it, yay for him), but his voice is annoying AND he asks hard-hitting questions to coaches and players along the lines of "If you were a tree, would your leaves be green? Unless of course you were a pine tree, then would your needles be green? And, if you don't want to talk about the color of your leaves and/or needles, feel free to tell some other cutesy story, and I'll guffaw like a senile old man with my teeth in my pocket." The biggest thing that gets me about this asscock is he's willing to give Roy Williams and Mike Krzyzewski as pass on every little negative blip on their radar, but he talks about what an asshole Bob Knight is. Yeah, I get it. Coach Knight was a dick. But you know what? He's also the winningest coach not named Pat Summit in NCAA basketball. So, eat dick already.
Couple the fact that David Glenn comes back with the obnoxious Billy-show run by Mark Packer, son of nefarious h8er Billy Packer, that plays in the afternoon on 620, and I start thinking of things I'd rather be doing than listening to sports talk radio around here, like having my testicles pulled slowly out of my nose with a crochet hook, for starters. Ugh.
Then, however, I turned over to the FM radio show today just in time to hear that they've picked up a contract with Westwood One radio. Do you know who is on Westwood One radio for football? That's right. Notre Freaking Dame. The guy announcing this promised every Notre Dame game every week. I about had to pull over and rub one out right there. Of course, 850 and 620 have to counter, so they are carrying...Duke football and North Carolina high school football games. Wow. The high school football games will be more interesting. So, there. Guess what, 99.9 the Fan? You've just picked up a new faithful listener. And you didn't even have to put on fishnets.

Speaking of Billy Packer... CBS got wise and told that antiquated curmudgeon to hit the road. Billy, of course, complained about how they got it wrong, declared it was over, and then shuffled off to eat his bran flake ice cream cone with extra prune. Good riddance.

Speaking of Good Riddance... Jesus, Red Sox fans, why did it take you this long? Let me back up. I passionately hate the Red Sox, mostly because the only Red Sox fans I've met in real life redefined the word "obnoxious". I believe it now means, "fat, ugly, and loud in a ball cap with a red 'B'". Of course, I've only ever met one Red Sox fan I can stand...probably because he kicks so much ass...mine, too, I'll assume, if I keep ragging on his team and 'nation'. But, don't worry, Red Sox nation, there is another group of fans who take obnoxious to a whole new level. Sorry, Hap. Anyway, it seems the annual drama has been shipped out West. The fact that Theo Epstein could convince anyone to take that mess of his hands is a major coup. I thought it was a deal when the Cubs dumped Sammy Sosa after his little tantrum...and Manny's been throwing these for years. Good riddance, I'd say. The mess that is Manny Ramirez was traded to the Dodgers today as the trading deadline came to an end in major league baseball. You got a decent pitcher outfielder (sorry, I was confusing him with Zach Duke) out of the deal, Red Sox nation, but I imagine the sudden relief of the migraine disappearing is better than Jason Bay. Unfortunately, David Ortiz is never going to see another hittable pitch in a clutch situation, but there you have it.

Stop me if you've heard this one... Danica Patrick picked a fight with another driver in the pits recently. This one with fellow female driver, Milka Duno. However, Milka, not having to abide by the by-laws of chivalry, threw a towel in Danica's face...twice...and then told her to leave the pits. This, of course, is not the first time Danica's picked a fight with someone. Famously, in the Indianapolis 500, after she wrecked out...again...she got out of her car and stormed down toward Ryan Briscoe's pits to confront him. She's had a history of punching other drivers--all male--knowing full well that they can't hit her back, and then when the guy talks about it, she insults his manhood. Also, ever notice how none of these wrecks are ever Danica's fault. I guess that's what you get when you have a bitch storming around with a false sense of entitlement. She keeps talking about making the jump to NASCAR, and I'd love to see it, because I can't really see Chocolate Myers taking her shit for too long before he hauls off and knocks her jaw loose.

More False Sense of Entitlement I see Michelle Wie is taking some more solid career advice from Daddy Dearest and skipping the major event on the LPGA tour--the tour on which she was won exactly zero events--to once again compete in a PGA tour. This will be her fourteenth attempt to play with the boys. She's made the cut in exactly zero of these competitions, but continues to play in them. If you'll pardon me, I'm going to go tell my daughter to enjoy being a little girl for as long as she wants. Look, I'm all for equality and all, but, seriously, Michelle...maybe you should focus on winning an LPGA event rather than just trying to make the cut on the PGA tour. If that's too much for you, maybe you can focus on signing the right scorecard for once.

A Man Named Brett George Brett, that is. We passed the 25th anniversary of the "Pine Tar Incident", wherein Brett showed the world that he was crazy. If not crazy, then he showed the world what a crazy face looks like, at least one without make-up and nasty scars on the cheeks. In case you forgot about it (or weren't born yet), basically Ole George used the sticky too high up on his bat and was called out after hitting a go-ahead two-run home run. His was the last out of the game. George came tearing out of the dugout to confront the umpires in a scene that was played over and over again during the opening scenes of This Week in Baseball throughout the entirety of my youth.

Purple Number 4? So, Brett Favre is...quasi-retired? What a fucking circus this has turned out to be. At first, I was like, "Brett, just walk away." But then the whole thing came out that Ted Thompson, GM for the Packers, and Mike McCarthy, head coach for the Packers, pushed Favre into retiring. If that's the case, then they should either let him come back, or outright release him. If it's false, and Brett really wanted to retire, then he should stay gone.
However, I can't understand the Packers' position here. They are rock solid, dead set on Aaron Rogers taking over in Green Bay. McCarthy has said there's no quarterback controversy...Aaron is our guy. Wow. Versus a hall-of-famer who owns ever passing record? Really? I mean...every team in the league has quarterback competitions, except Green Bay, Indianapolis and New England. To tell me that Aaron Rogers is on par with Peyton Manning and Tom Brady is fucking ridiculous. I mean, you've seen this guy on the field, right? Not to mention, he's a Jeff Tedford quarterback. Those guys always turn out to be great NFL stars, right Akili Smith and Joey Harrington?
Yeah, it's gotten ugly and comical, but my favorite is when Favre was going to call the Packers' bluff and show up at training camp. Thompson talked him out of it, saying "If you show up at camp, Brett, I'll lose my job." Okay, yeah, because when you're not making the playoffs this year with Rogers, and Favre is leading some team to the playoffs, your head isn't going end up on a pike in Green Bay. Good luck with that, buddy.
Honestly, if Brett ends up in Minnesota, I will root for him to beat the Packers. I know, my loyalties should not lie with one man, but the Packers bungle-fucked this long ago. I want to see Rogers fall flat on his face and I want to see McCarthy eating shit pie. Sauerkraut is optional.
Check it out. I just switched allegiances again...and still no fishnets. Although, I'm thinking someone out there might need to put on a pair to help cement my ties to the Purple People Eaters.

I think that should just about do it for alienating every one of my readers.

The Physics of Field Day

Today was my daughter's Field Day. There are a few differences between Field Days now and Field Days back when I was but a fresh-faced youth. Today, they wanted to make sure that the kids were slathered up with sunblock before participating. They also wanted to make sure the kids had water. When I was a lad, we had neither sunblock nor water, and you shut up and liked it that way, lest the other students and teachers kicked dirt in your face and called you a sissy (Oh, Mrs. Buckman, why? Why???)

Also, back when I was a kid, they gave you ribbons and all this and that stuff, depending on how you fared during the competitions. My daughter's Field Day was more game-oriented, it seemed. This makes sense as they don't have a track or an official soccer field or any of that good stuff that even my elementary school had (it was a combined elementary and middle school, thus the need for a football "stadium"). Despite this lack of ribbons coupled with the feeling of superiority over your classmates in games of skill, my daughter had a wonderful time at her Field Day.

This made me think back to my days of youth and of the competitions in which I participated. It was perhaps a harsh lesson, but I learned early on that the kids who won the running events were usually lithe, quick and surefooted. Me, being the slow, big, lumbering ox that I am would always place lower in the races, such as 12th or 13th...which is especially embarrassing when only nine kids run. It did not take long for me to figure out that I should focus on games that played more to my strengths, such as plowing and the occasional harvesting. However, when not involved in games that involved a yoke and the words "haw" and "gee" [1], I found the games involving the "field" portion of "track and field" far more appealing (and gratifying). Things such as the discus (thrown with a frisbee), shotput (a soft ball), the football toss[2] and football punt were more my speed.

Also, team games, such as the "sack race", the "three-legged race" and the "wheel-barrow race" were good for me. However, unbeknownst to young me--say, ages seven, eight, nine--there's a certain sort of understanding of physics that would greatly benefit such Field Day competitions. The most obvious to me, looking back, is the wheelbarrow race. See, I participated with my friend, Heath, who was farm-raised and, like me, ox-strong. Unfortunately, Heath was about 2/3 my height.

Perhaps I should explain some things here, lest you are confused as to what the wheel-barrow race is. The wheel-barrow race is run in teams of two, with one team member getting down on all fours and the second team member standing behind him or her (sounds kinky, I know!). The teammate on the ground then raises his legs up and the one behind holds the legs by the ankles, and then at the sound of the starter pistol, the member on the ground propels himself forward using the strength of his upper arms and shoulders to motor forward while the man behind helps stabilize the team and, since he can actually see, does the bulk of the steering. For our games, there was a "midway point", where the competitors had to turn, and you could either switch off (where the ankle-holder became the bottom man and the bottom man became the ankle-holder) or you could keep the team as you started, and the race was then run the rest of the way.

Heath and I did not really think through our roles in the wheel-barrow race. As we started, I was the bottom man. Several yards away was Heath, grasping my ankles. Catastrophe was about to strike. I remember getting about halfway through the race, and my arms, which were longer than Heath's legs, kind of pulled the top half of my body away from the lower half, causing a collapse akin to the implosion of a derelict building. Fortunately, I was able to get back up and we fought our way to the halfway point, where we decided to switch off. This proved to work out much better as my long legs could keep up a very steady pace with Heath's shorter arms, and what looked like certain doom was salvaged to a fifth-place finish. Oh, how I cherished that green ribbon, but rued the other eight children who finished above us and envied their higher placements.

The following year, Heath and I put extra thought into our roles for the Wheel-Barrow Race. With Heath on the bottom and yours truly playing helmsmen to his ankles, we cruised easily to a first-place finish. It looked something akin to Secretariat capturing the Triple Crown. Champions we were, and champions we would remain...at least until the following year. Heath and I never again competed together in the Wheel-Barrow Race, deciding instead to go out as champions. For that one year, however, we had everything we wanted: money, fame, women, a wing at the museum dedicated to us[3]. Incidentally, the very next thing I won was a t-shirt in a college basketball trivia contest [4]. For those who might be seeking proper strategy for victory in the Wheel-Barrow Race, remember these words: always let the tall guy steer, and you, too, shall drink from the sweet cup of victory.


[1]: "left" and "right", respectively.
[2]: Here's a sad fact for you: My wife throws a tighter spiral than I do. No one had ever shown me how to throw a football. The catching I'm awesome at (I have soft, strong hands), but the throwing...notsomuch.
[3]: We never had any of these.
[4]: This is also a lie.

DUI-ke

Ah, Duke University. I felt kind of bad for you when Mike Nifong dragged the good name of your school through the mud in order to get reelected. Wait. No, that was just the lacrosse team. Duke tried and convicted the team without a trial. I forgot that. Any shred of respect I had for Duke went up in smoke with that little incident.

Now, there's this:

http://www.wral.com/sports/story/2959759/

I realize that you have to be pretty smart to get into Duke. I acknowledge that. Also, I have no problem with underaged college kids hitting the booze, especially after the semester has wound down. I mean, I can think of a certain case of Icehouse bought and swilled down in Dekalb, IL that was purchased...shall we say...illegally? Yes, I think that sums it up nicely. So, it's not like I can cast any stones from that viewpoint.

But, dumbass...here's a clue. If you're an athlete, it might not be the best idea to go carrying booze around. Someone's going to snap your picture. If that someone happens to be in the city where your biggest rival is found, they're going to arrest you as well.

New Duke "football coach", David Cutcliffe, had nothing to say except that the situation will be handled internally. And by "internally", he means that he's calling Archie Manning to see if there's a hidden fourth Manning child that can magically appear in Durham this fall.

LooKKKKKKKKKKing BacKKKKKKKKKK

Do you remember what you were doing ten years ago, today? I don't remember, either, except that I know I was four days away from graduating from St. Joseph's College. I'll hazard a guess and say that I was drinking beer while on the toilet shitter in the Gallagher 1st middle stall, drinking a beer in my dorm room, Gallagher 117, doing something stupid and druken with partner-in-crime Will Shannon, and probably planning another clumsy, awkward pass at Jamie Bach[1] later in the day. I think I might have also destroyed a phone against the exterior of Gallagher Hall later tonight, and I'm also going to guess that there was, at some point, a drunken trip to the Trail Tree in or Grandma's late in the night for either a Big T Trucker Sandwich or Biscuits and Gravy (and an eggy sandwich if a certain priest-to-be came with us).

The reason for waxing nostalgic is that today is the 10th anniversary of Kerry Wood striking out 20 Astros in Wrigley Field. This instantly put his name on the baseball map and made us all wonder just how many World Series rings he would bring to the North Side of Chicago[2]. Unfortunately, as productive as Wood was/has been striking guys out, he's been just as productive when it comes to injuring himself. Elbows, wrists, shoulders...everything on Wood's body seems to have broken down at some point during his career. Blame Dusty Baker if you want to (and I do), but some of Wood's injuries have been completely non-baseball related, such as injuring himself in a hot tub.

Despite all this, Kerry Wood remains one of my all-time favorite Cubs players. I don't know why, either. Maybe I'm still locked in the nostalgic hope of seeing him achieving his potential. Maybe I keep thinking that some day he'll wake up, hop out of bed and decide that today is the day he's going to strike out 20 batters again (which would be really difficult, since he's been relegated to the bullpen these days). Maybe because his marvelous feat of 20 strikeouts came in those waning days of my college career, when things were looking most hopeful and promising and I had the whole world figured out. Maybe seeing Kerry Wood pitch takes me back to a happy place that I have locked away inside of me. I don't know, but he is, without a doubt, my favorite baseball player. Here in the Triangle, there is a city called Cary and, in Cary, there is a road called Cary Wood Dr. Ever since I saw that, I have looked for an affordable house on Cary Wood Drive, just to say I live there, because that would be so fucking cool, and all because of Kerry Wood.

Wood's career has been one of unfulfilled potential. However, if you look at the recent spate of baseball news and think back, Wood (from Texas and a high-strikeout pitcher) was compared to Roger Clemens (from Texas and a high-strikeout pitcher). It was thought their careers would follow similar paths and Wood would be racking up Cy Young's along with wins and World Series titles. Fortunately--thankfully!--it seems that Wood is nothing like Clemens, as the injury-prone body and extended stays on the DL would point toward a lack of using steroids and HGH, and, well, there doesn't seem to be a string of trashy women with hordes of skeletons stashed in their closets following Wood around.

For all the bad that has surrounded Kerry Wood's career, I'll never forget looking up through my Miller-Genuine-Draft-inspired haze and saying, "Holy shit, Will, this guy's struck out 20 batters. Hand me another.[3]" So, Kerry, here's to you, man. Happy Anniversary.

[1]: In case you were wondering, she looks a lot like the Snorg Tees girl, just with a smaller chest and incisors and a stronger proclivity to wearing knee-high stockings and very short skirts.
[2]: That would be a big, fat 0 and counting...
[3]: Obviously, nowadays, it would be most appropriate to toast Kerry's feat with a 120 Minute IPA from Dogfish Head Brewery, as it's 20% ABW. That's 1% ABW for every strikeout. I can do math, me.

I Creaned My Pants

Okay, so most of you didn't fall for my juvenile April Fool's Prank from the other day.

Hopefully, you'll appreciate my juvenile potty humor.

No? Well, tough.

Anyway, as I was laying down my little head upon the soft pillows of my bed late Monday night, I flipped over to ESPN because I wanted to catch the scores of the NIT semis. Fortunately, I was lying there when the NCAAM news came up. Much to my surprise, I saw the words "Indiana will name Marquette head coach Tom Crean to the same position."
I thought for a moment that I had misread. Or that I had fallen for some April Fool's Prank. Except that it was after midnight, and the collective brain trust at the World Wide Leader isn't half so clever as to concoct this clever ruse.
At the time, I was unsure how I felt about the hire. I felt it was good that a highly-respected coach had left a program he had returned to glory for Indiana, despite the daunting task in front of him. However, to be quite honest, I wasn't wowed by the hire. I felt it was probably a good move, but after that I didn't have much to say. So, I slept on it.

I woke up Wednesday, and I was fired up. I began to think about how Tom Crean had taken a Marquette team that had gone through a slump since the golden era of Al McGuire and built them into a perennially ranked team that was very seldom mentioned for being on the dreaded bubble in March. I thought about Dwyane Wade, Travis Diener and how he led his teams to two victories over Kentucky (sorry Ψ * Ψ) in the NCAA tournament. I thought about Dominic James and how Tom Crean recruited him out of Indiana. I thought about Jerel McNeal shooting light's out against Notre Dame in the Big East tournament. Everything I could think about Tom Crean was positive, aside from how, at times, he looks a little bit like Tom Arnold. But, fuckin' aye, if that's all you've got going against you, you're doing something right.

It seems, thanks to the guys at Inside the Hall (which is the best Indiana basketball blog going) who have provided several link dumps (and yes, I've read all of the included links) giving a national perspective on Indiana's hire, that everyone else around the country also thinks that this was a good hire by Indiana. I've heard nothing but positives, whether it's local ass clown David Glenn talking about it or I'm reading a story on Yahoo! sports (I try to avoid columns on the World Wide Leader's website). The only negatives I've heard are from Illinois fans, and they all are saying that Crean made a huge mistake by coming to Indiana. And by "all" I mean Deadspin's own Will Leitch and Foul Balls' Tom Fornelli. And, if you can get under Illinois fans' skin, then you're doing something right.

I think I was surprised more than anything on Tuesday night, which is why I wasn't jumping around making an ass of myself when I read the news. However, Wednesday morning, I was basically doing just that because I was so fired up. I think Crean is going to last a long time at Indiana, he's going to right the ship, he's going to rebuild a program with a proud tradition, and he's going to get in players who aren't going to have character issues like the current crop of players seem to excel at having. I only wish that Indiana had been smart enough two years ago to offer Crean the job; apparently, from what I read, they talked to Crean about the position but ultimately ended up going with Sampson. At least this time they seem to have gotten it right.
As excited as I am, I can only imagine that Marquette fans are feeling the exact opposite. This was a total surprise to me; I can imagine that this was a total blindside to them. At the outset, I figured Tom Crean was the darkest of the dark horse candidates, because he was paid top money by Marquette and had a long contract in place. Indiana's athletic department is notoriously parsimonious, and they've got quite a few football coaches they're still paying for doing their typical underwhelming jobs at Indiana. To go out and hire Crean away from Marquette, and pay him top dollar was totally unexpected. I'm glad to see that Indiana, the president and the trustees are willing to do what it will take to get their basketball program fixed and back on track.

Again, though, I feel bad for Marquette fans. They lost a helluva coach on Tuesday, and I can understand if they're angry, disappointed and sad. I had the same emotions going through me when it was revealed that Sampson had spit in the face of the Indiana tradition and program. I don't have this worry with Crean. Yes, right now, with the NCAA infractions meeting looming, DJ White's graduation, Eric Gordon's bolting for the NBA, and Bassett and Ellis kicked off the team, this could only be considered a lateral move--at best--for Crean. It's not like Marquette is a program that's not steeped in tradition and a solid, venerable basketball program. However, the difference is that I think Crean can take the grimy mess that is Indiana's program and polish it back up to where it is, truly, one of the five best programs in the country (UCLA, North Carolina, Kentucky, Kansas, Duke...pick a top five out of those).

When the luster returns to the program in a couple of seasons (hell, Crean might be able to string together 20 wins with a group of walk-ons and bench players this next season), we as fans will get back to seeing more of this in Bloomington...except with a nice crimson tie and another red banner.

That's a Wrap, People

Well, thank God that's over.

Here's a quick quiz for you: can you think of any team that has ever had a more disappointing 25-8 record? I sure as hell can't. However, this year, this Indiana squad sure has provided that. 25 is a helluva lot of wins, especially for a team in a "power" conference, and yet last night as I watched the slow demise of the team I once had such hope for, I felt relief. Relief that it was over. Relief that things wouldn't get any worse. Relief that, hell, I don't know anymore. Just relief.

That wasn't a first-round tournament game last night. That was George telling Lenny to look down the river and think about the rabbits while he put a bullet in the back of Lenny's skull to keep him from hurting himself or anyone else.

That was Travis taking Old Yeller out back and shooting him.

That was Luke Skywalker taking Vader's helmet off so he could look at him one more time. Hopefully, that will also be Luke burning Vader's body and bringing about an end of his reign of terror.

And, it's not like I didn't see this coming. I picked Arkansas in all of my pools, except one, and that was the one where I was doing it through an Indiana blog, so I felt obligated to pick the Hoosiers. Remember my little lessons about the tournament picking from last year? Yeah. I did learn something.

I think the thing that frustrates me most is the fact that the team has not advanced one bit since November. Yes, they played well and were, at one point, 17-1. That means they went 8-7 over their final 15. In a down Big Ten (one of those losses was to UConn...who bowed out gracefully to San Diego yesterday). With two superstar players on their team, one of them the Big Ten player of the year, the other the Big Ten Freshman of the year.

Eric Gordon is shooting at a torrid 7-50 pace from three over the final few games. You know, I could hit 7 out of 50. I could probably even hit them coming off a screen. I should bolt for the NBA, too. This is the frustration talking, but I'm disgusted in how Gordon has not improved at all this year. His coaches have just "let the leash off". Well, that's great. Good job, fellas. I think Billy Packer (*shudder*) made a good point last night that Gordon should sit down and watch Stephen Curry's game against gonzaga from earlier in the day. That's how a shooter and scorer should move. Be smart, Eric: come back for at least one more year and learn how to play something other than AAU style ball. Be smart, Indiana: get a coach that can properly utilize talent.

I guess the silver lining here is that the Dan Dakich era is over. Sorry, Danny, you did good against Michael Jordan. Strolling the sidelines at your alma mater, however, not so good. I think your fate was sealed with the 30 point loss to Michigan State.

However you slice it, the season is over and it was a tremendous disappointment. I still have 31 games left to watch, but it's going to take a lot to get this sour taste out of my mouth.

Where's the gin?