My Virginia Tech Football Memory

Virginia Tech football celebrates its 125th year this year, and the various alumni groups and Hokie Sports sites are asking us to share our memories.  Here is my submission to the so called "Bracket of Memories":

"I will never forget the night that Virginia Tech played against West Virginia on November 20, 2002.

For one, it was a fucking Wednesday. Wednesday!  Why?  I never really understood that one. Wednesday was a bad night for me.  That was the night that my ultra heavy metal band, DeathSpoon, played at The Underground Underground, a sort of concrete bunker underneath the Underground Pub.  But in all honesty, the band wasn't doing so well, and I was just a bass player. Bass players are a dime a dozen after all (it isn't that hard to just go bommma bom bom bom bom bom bommma!  Da bomma bom bom bom bom bom bomma bomma!) and if they really needed one they could just pick one up from the six or seven bass players who kind of camped out in front of the Mish Mish, just waiting for a van to pull up and offer them some work.  Painting, strange bass player sex stuff, even sometimes bass playing, just whatever those guys could get.  Just enough to keep the dream of being a real life bass player alive.  In any case, I could read the reading on the wall.  DeathSpoon would at least go on without me, and perhaps cease to be altogether.

So though it was school night, and I probably had an exam soon to come, and my impending expulsion from the band weighed heavily on mine heart, I decided that a Wednesday night in Lane Stadium (any night in Lane Stadium, really), was worth the cost.  So off I went.

I don't remember much of the game.  Just that at the half, the Hokies were winning.  I am not sure why I decided to leave at half time, aside from maybe the delicious notion that leaving at the half showed my complete contempt for the other team, a real Edward the Longshanks kind of move, retiring with the battle still raging but clearly well in hand.  I also think someone in the stands may have thrown up on my shoes, thereby dampening my enthusiasm for the contest.

So I walked back home, which at that time was a townhouse on North Main.  It was a long walk, and no doubt a thoughtful one.  I suffered with depression on and off through college (as I still do), to the point where at times the only thing I was capable of doing was sitting in bed eating a bag of Krispy Kruellers and reading "The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt".  Doing anything else was just too hard.  I don't think I was there yet on this particular day, but I am sure something was on my mind.  I do remember looking in the window of a restaurant, a puddle of light on a dark November night, and seeing a few patrons sitting around a table, some of the few people in Blacksburg who were NOT at the football game.  I admired their cool disdain, their lack of concern that not one or two miles distance the mighty Hokies, THEIR mighty Hokies, were engaged in combat against the Barbarians from the Northern Coal Districts.  I wished for a moment that I had their confidence and comportment (be it ever so smug), and imagined they were interesting artsy people who wore black turtlenecks and read dead French philosophers. For a brief moment I almost decided to walk in and introduce myself, asking them to take me in like a band of jaded soldiers takes in a stray dog, for the sheer pathos of the thing, the idea that anything could be alive in a world so cold.  But the moment passed, and I walked on.

In any case, by the time I got home the third quarter was well underway and Tech was losing.  I was upset, but not really all that surprised.  We ended up losing that game 18-21.  Won't forget that anytime soon.

So yeah.  Happy 125, Virginia Tech Football!  Wishing you many, many more."

In Muted Praise of Kaepernick, and Thoughts on the Anthem as a National Symbol

The fracas over the National Anthem continues to grow as more NFL players, some whole NFL teams, and even Megan Rapinoe all participate or contemplate participating in Colin Kaepernick's "I ain't standing up during the National Anthem" protest.

There is, naturally, a pretty wicked backlash on social media.  We apparently were all willing to accept the idea that maybe one guy, this Colin Kaepernick, would not stand up provided he showed reverence to the armed forces by taking a knee.  But now that more than one person wishes to exercise their right to free speech?  Clearly that is a little too much for the Constitution and our Country to bear.

Watching all of this transpire, there is something that bothers me.  How is it that all of our national symbols have become synonymous with respect for the military?  It's as if there is nothing else our nation stands for.

It's a free country of course.  If you want to make the anthem a symbol of the sacrifice given by so many soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines then I suppose you can go right ahead.  Veterans and those presently serving exemplify some of the best impulses of our culture, and if you choose to venerate them by placing your hand over your heart and facing the flag as the anthem is played or sung, it's your right to do so.

That....is a pretty big flag.

But we never collectively decided that this is the case, that that is what our National Anthem is supposed to mean for everyone.  I don't remember having a national convention in which we decided that "heretofore from this date the National Anthem shall be an icon through which we remember the sacrifice of our nation's armed forces".  No one gets to say definitively what a piece of our culture represents.  So you can't expect everyone to view the national anthem in the same way.

I don't see it that way.  I'm not sure how I see it, honestly.  Sometimes, sure, I think of the troops.  Sometimes I think of all the blessings that I have as an American, and how lucky I am to be one.  Sometimes I think of the promise of our nation and the fact that our anthem (the verse we sing, at least) ends intriguingly in a question, as if asking us if we have done all we can to live up to the promise of our nation.  But there are other times I think of how the tune is a British drinking song, and how hard it is to sing as a result, and how not good the person singing it is at singing it, and whether that person is lip synching or not.  Then there are other times where I think how interesting it is that our anthem (the verse we sing, at least) ends intriguingly in a question, as if suggesting that we have not gone far enough, as if to suggest that we are a long way from living up to the promise of our nation, a truth held self evident that All Men are Created Equal.

So I can never quite bring myself to place my hand over my heart while it is sung.   We've done some amazing, wonderful things as a nation.  But like so many others, we have also done some horrible things, sometimes perhaps by not doing enough.  We have much to answer for.  America is my home, and I love it so, and yet....

...Reflexive patriotism bothers me, a bit.  It's almost like going to Church and getting your sins forgiven, accepting the grace without reckoning with how in fact you have erred, and what you might learn from it.

 We, as a nation, owe an incredible debt, an almost unpayable debt, to those who have served our country.

But I wonder if going through these rituals of national respect satisfies the collective guilt that some of us must feel about sending other people to die and kill for us.  Anthem sung and penance paid, we go on with our merry lives until the next football game, using our symbols to build a wall of separation between our normal lives and the wars we fight.

You might say it's the least we can do to show respect for our military, to stand and place our hands over our hearts while the anthem is played.  I would argue that we owe much more than that.  We have to take it upon ourselves to ensure that "from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Sometimes that means taking a stand, in which ever way you can, to show how far away we are from realizing our best aspirations, that we still need to strive boldy towards a better future together, rather than rely on a few brave souls to do it for us. We all have a stake and a responsibility to make our country live up to its promise.

Colin Kaepernick and his band of renown are doing their best to make the most powerful statement they can with that end in mind.

And for that, I have to applaud them.    

Euro 2016 Final Predictions!!

My boss and I agree on very little.  

He thinks comedies from the 80s are wonderful (to whit: One Crazy Summer); I think the vast majority of them don't stand the test of time.  He prefers Skippy, whereas I am a JIF man through and through.  I believe that an argument is a string of statements intended to establish a proposition, where he seems to think its the automatic naysaying of anything the other person says.  

But stunningly, we both have the same predictions for Euro 2016, which starts its semifinal round today.  Even more incredible is that we believe it for the same reasons.  

We have Wales going through against Portugal to make it to the final and cap what has been a fairy tail run, eclipsed by the rather stunning performance of wee Iceland.  Wales seem to be firing on all cylinders and - all due respect to Ronaldo and his impossible, cartoonish body - we just don't think that Portugal are really that good.  

So that was an easy one.  But now consider Germany and France.  

At first I wanted to pick France.  They are playing well, and are playing in their home country.  Germany didn't look so great against Italy....ah, but there is the thing.  The game between Germany and Itsly featured what are in my mind the two best sides in the tournament.  I think it will be close, but I give Germany the edge.  So does my boss, for exactly the same reasons.  

And so we come to Wales versus Germany.  I'd enjoy, maybe, seeing Wales  win...but in life there are three undeniable truths:  never get involved in a land war in Asia, never go against a Sicilian when Death is on the line, and never bet against Germany in a final. 

Der Mannschaft.  All the way.   

The Post Where England Slowly Sinks into the Sea

Those who think they know me well think that I love all things British (and particularly those things English).  It's true that I like lots of British comedians and authors; I have always enjoyed British history;  I also like football (soccer) and English pubs; some British foods, some British beers, British bands, the British Open; I don't really like the Queen but I did dress up as her once for Halloween a long time ago.  I can appreciate the pomp.  I also absolutely adore English muffins.

So it might come as a surprise that I actually root against England during major soccer tournaments.  Since they believe that they invented football by pulling it out of their beef fed arses the English have a strange sense of entitlement when it comes to The Beautiful Game, this despite the fact that they have only won the World Cup once (1966) and have never placed higher than third in a European Championship.  They are not nearly as good as they think they are, they were probably never as good as they used to be,  and every new generation of players seems to be a "Golden Generation" set to do great things on the pitch and return glory to that most glorious of lands:  Engalond.

And therein lies what really is the true joy of watching these international tournaments, and that is watching the English try to figure out what the hell happened when, inevitably, it all falls apart in yet another apathetic, shambolic display.

And boy did it ever fall apart today.

England lost to Iceland 2-1, Iceland coming back early after England had gone up 1-0 on a penalty converted by the sometimes balding Wayne Rooney.  But Iceland came back on a trademark long throw-in that the England team knew all about and yet, somehow failed to defend.  A scant 12 minutes later Sigthorsson would slot home against Joe Hart after some impressive interplay by Iceland at the top of the England box.  Hart got a hand to it but he was too tired after slapping people in the tunnel and belting "God Save the Queen" at the top of his lungs to make it an effective save and the ball dribbled across the goal line.  For the rest of the game Iceland defended with panache and organization while England panicked and the rest....

Well it's history, really, isn't it?  Iceland is a nation of merely 330,000 people.  The country has done a lot with its football squad, raising it in the rankings from 100+ to 37th; and yet one of the co-managers has to work part time as a dentist, because in Iceland football doesn't quite pay.  By contrast, disgraced manager Roy Hodgson (who has done the most English thing imaginable by resigning almost immediately) was making millions of pounds a year just to manage an England team made up largely of players who play in the EPL, arguably the greatest professional soccer league in the world.  

From "The Guardian": Harry Kane had a poor night for England, misplacing many of his free-kicks. Photograph: Yves Herman/Reuters

It sounds kind of like if you had this huge, incredible army with this vast fleet of ships, and yet you were still defeated by a bunch of farmers with pitchforks who decided to shoot from behind rocks and trees at you in your scarlet coats.  Maybe that is why this defeat hurts so much. It brings up memories of times gone by.  

Of course there is added context as this is the first game the National Team has played since their countrymen stated, by vote, that they wanted to leave the EU.  It is true that Iceland is not part of the EU and so there is no real political significance to the loss; and yet I wonder if this doesn't add to the incredible sinking feeling amongst many English (who voted by large margins to leave) that they aren't all they are cracked up to be.   

Au revoir, England!  Au revoir.

My Favorite Frank Beamer Story....Which isn't Really About Frank Beamer at all, but Rather Begins with a Bunch of Rocks.

Even if the Hokies lose this weekend to UVA it may not be Super Franlkie Beamer's last football game; at 5-7 the well supported Hokies could still end up in the Diamond Walnut Weedeater Bowl or something like that.  However, in celebration of Frank Beamer's last regular season game and his final trip to Charlottesville in anger, I want to tell my favorite Frank Beamer story,  which is less about Frank and more about the Appalachian Trail.  And its long, and its dumb, but this my blog, so....yeah.

So, in the beginning....

When I thru-hiked the AT 10 years ago I had a small radio, equipped with AM/FM/TV and weather bands.  When I started the hike I thought that I wouldn't be listening to it too much, seeing as I would be communing with nature and getting down with the trees and birds and shit and didn't want anything to interfere with that.  I'd listen to it at night sometimes or in the mornings, to check the weather and get some news of the world, but as I made my way down the trail my heart and mind was full of the silent sublimity of nature. I really had no need to listen to the radio.  

Then I ran smack dab into Pennsylvania.  

Pennsylvania is just a terrible place to hike.  It's where the glaciers from the last ice age stopped, and that glacial boundary is marked with millions of small rocks poking up out of the ground.  For two days out of the Delaware Water Gap I walked on the points of these rocks jutting out of the ground for miles and miles and miles and at last, with my mind numb and my feet sore and my nerves going all a jingle-jangle, I finally pulled out the radio and clipped it to my pack, stuck in the earbuds, and never looked back.  For the rest of the hike if I was walking I was listening to the radio.  Nature be damned.

How'd you like to commune with this?

Saturdays became my favorite days.  I'd listen to weekend edition on NPR and then listen to the rest of their Saturday programming, which was usually things like "Wait wait don't tell me" and "This American Life". Then, in the evenings, I would listen to college football broadcasts.

If the Hokies were playing?  Double Bonus, because when I hiked the trail I loved the Virginia Tech Fighting Gobblers more than I ever had before or have since.

Two reasons for this, as best as I can figure.  First, when you hike, when you actually spend your day walking for miles and miles, something weird happens to your brain - I think its because you are getting so much exercise that you have excessive amounts of Dopamine and other hormones to contend with.

For me, this was manifested in being extremely emotional.  Listening to Country Music was the worst.  I'd hear one song about Mama and how after Dad died she flew his F-14 into Libya and the plane got hit and the dog had to eject over the desert sands and we never could find him and now she's sitting there in her rocking chair knitting a pair of Christmas shoes for when Aunt Deb goes to meet Jesus and wondering about what happened to the dog and I'll tell ya - I would cry. Tears streaming down the cheeks and sniffles sniffling up the nose, a few hushed sobs.

But then the next song would be about the farmer's daughter with a predisposition to tequila who likes to go skinny dipping after she is done milking the cows and she has a tattoo somewhere on her body of what doing something to who and then she walks off to Bible Study with a tray of biscuits winking at you because when she made them she was buck nekkid (okay, she was wearing an apron, because otherwise it would simply be unsanitary) and all these old Church ladies will be eating her buck nekkid biscuits and it gives her little subversive heart so much joy, and did I mention she has huuuuuge tires on her truck and her dog is just awesome, like a little Boswell to her Samuel Johnson, going where ever she does and making little notes on her life so that one day the dog can publish her story and it will be not quite a best seller but that's pretty good for a dog, and he'll get to New York City to see if those city slickers ever learned how to make a decent salsa. And I would cheer-up, like, immediately.

So I was in love with the Hokies because I was sort of messed up and pretty much in love with everything.

Second, the Hokies, they reminded me of home.  Walking the AT at the time represented both the farthest and the longest I had been away from Blacksburg, and I was maybe a little home-sick.  Just a little.  So when I heard news of the Hokies or listened to their games, I felt like a little piece of me had gone back home, was hanging out spiritually in the town I grew up in with the people I loved, and that was cool man.  I could dig it, you know?

Sure you do.

Anyways, the story.  Around Halloween of 2005 I had actually reached Pearisburg, and my family pulled me off the trail for a week to rest, relax, and do some slack packing, where they would drive me to point A, I'd walk for about 25 miles or so and get picked up at the end of the day at point B by my parents.  They'd drive me home, I'd get to eat a nice big meal and sleep in a regular bed.

After a week of this I was finally out of range, and it was finally time to start hiking again for reals.  I was driven out to somewhere near Marion in a truck and dropped off with a full load of food, some fresh socks, and a new pair of trekking poles, and there I was again, back in the woods.  Mixed emotions.  Mixed emotions.  Happy to be back on the road, sad to leave those I loved behind so I could go finish the hike.

But it was Saturday, and I had the Hokies to buoy my spirits, yeah?  It has been a great season for Tech, despite the fact that they were lead by Marcus Vick (Marcus Vick!).  They had begun the season ranked 8th in the nation and had steadily improved their standing as they destroyed all other opposition.  They beat big named teams.  Looking at the college football landscape today it is almost impossible to believe, but there was a time when #3 VT met #18 Boston College at Lane Stadium and Beamer's Boys put their adversaries to the sword in front of a sold out crowd.

My how times have changed.

Any ways, on November 5th, as a I sat huddled in a dark shelter not too far from Burke's Garden, the #3 Hokies hosted the #5 Hurricanes at Lane Stadium, and it grew dark, and I fell asleep listening to the game, and I woke up around 11:30 to the sound of Frank Beamer saying that we should give Miami all credit, they're a great football team, you know, and.....

They had lost, 7-27.  'Twas a schlacking.

The next morning I penned a hasty note in the trail register, a notebook left at the shelters that people write in, either to share news on trail conditions or just have a laugh, let people know that you were at this particular place.  I was feeling plucky, so I wrote a sarcastic note stating that upon hearing that the Hokies had lost my spirit was so mortally wounded, my heart was so broken, that it was not possible for me to continue, and I was getting off the trail.  Laughing to myself, I kept on a'chooglin down the line.

Fast forward about a month and about 500 miles later.  I'm at the Walayisi Outdoor Center in Neels Gap, GA, the last stop before the AT's southern terminus in Springer mountain.  There is an outfitter there, and the people who work it are used to seeing people going north who have just logged in their first 70 miles of the trail and maybe their first 70 miles of backpacking ever in their lives.  Many of them have no idea what they are doing and desperately need gear changes and advice.  It is a PERFECT place for an outfitters.

I was standing there, eyeing a pocket rocket stove, and one of the people working the outfitters saw me. "Those are sweet little stoves, man."

"Yeah, they look it."

"What are you carrying?"

"Oh, I have a whisperlite."

"Ha!  You mean a 'whisperheavy'?  You know, we got a sale going on right now, if you are looking to upgrade."

I gave him a sour look, or at least the sourest look I could manage, which wasn't very sour because like I said earlier I was pretty much in love with everything.  "That's okay.  I've managed to schlep it for 2,000 miles.  I think I can manage the last 77."

But hey, he wasn't all bad.  He gave me and Bad Cheese and Stale Crackers (the two people I finished the hike with) the number to Domino's pizza.

And as I sat there, eating a lovely medium pizza that was mine and only mine, these two hikers walked in who I had never seen before, but they knew someone I had gone to high school with and who is now a yoga princess or something like that (really.  It's actually pretty cool).  Bad Cheese and Stale Crackers introduced themselves, and when I told them who I was they were flabbergasted.

They had read my post after the Miami loss, and they thought I had actually, really, had gotten off the trail because of it.

And that's my story.

And yeah, it isn't that great, which is why any effort I've made to write about the Trail and my hike have met so often with frustration.  For me there was no great spiritual epiphany or insight.  I didn't meet any bears.  I didn't fall in love with nature or anything or anyone else.  When I got back my life followed the same arc that it was already on before I did my hike. The AT was a grind, a long day in and day out moderately dangerous adventure.  But it was beautiful, and I was happy, and it has molded my sensibilities, and I am ever so grateful to have done it.

But I think if this story tells anything, it shows what Frank Beamer had built at Virginia Tech, and what it meant to so many people.  These guys actually thought that a VT football loss had been the final straw that finally forced me to hang up the trekking poles and call it a walk; that they actually believed I would do such a thing shows what power the program had over us, how much a part of our lives it was.

Frank Beamer in happier times.  I'll leave it to the shirt and the hat to give away the year, but it was a very, very long ago.

So thanks, Frank, for giving so many people something they have held so dear, a decent college football team, and occasionally a great college football team.  There are more important things in this word, I suppose....but the Hokies gave so many of us something to project a bit of meaning onto, a reason to put one foot in front of the other towards the Fall season and towards Saturday and Thursday nights in Blacksburg, and a reason to eat Turkey Legs that are just way to large to be natural.      

And now, I am going to get me some of those buck-nekkid biscuits.
 

Frank Beamer ist Kaput!

Ha ha!

My friends, it has been a horrible sports weekend.  Chelsea lost 3-1 to Liverpool, showing an utter lack of fighting spirit (it is almost as if Jose Mourinho pulled his players back and played with the 1-0 lead to try and prove to everyone that they can still do it...but a 1-0 lead is simply not a safe one for Chelsea, Special One or no).  Australia lost the Rugby World Cup to the entitled and favored All Blacks.  And yes, the Cleveland Browns did find another way to lose in a wonderfully awful way, but Pittsburgh did the same.

But then out of Blacskburg comes some fantastic news.  Not only do the Hokies walz into Boston and defeat Boston College, but Frank Beamer also announces his retirement.

Hasta La Vista, Frankie.

My friends, I welcome this news with open arms. Frank Beamer is a wonderful man and he really made Virginia Tech football something.  But I think the program has lost the plot over the last five years and I am glad that the man at the helm has finally realized he has lost the power to steer the ship to where it needs to go.  It's a shame that he can't leave at the top of the game, but the time has come and I applaud the decision.

Of course, I wonder what Frank will do next?  Hopefully he'll finally polish off the highly anticipated sequel to Turn Up the Wick! (many copies of which, I am sure, are still in the warehouse of the Tech Bookstore), which I understand is a three volume history of the French-Indochina War, in which he posits the theory that maybe the French would have been more successful if they had supplied their troops with Gatorade, because it's very hot in the jungle and hydration is a key to victory.

Of course gatorade was invented in 1965 and the French had left Vietnam long before.  Still, it is a cogent argument, and if the French had developed the sports drink first instead of spending so much time on wine and fucking bread maybe they would have won a few wars here and there.

Then I imagine the man will try and open a successful restaurant in the Tidewater region, which thus far he has failed to do. I know it bothers him, I know it does.  There is a space in his office reserved for the certificate he will get when he wins a Daily Press Choice Award for "Best Restaurant".  Beamer's, he thought, would really work.  But the unsettling juxtaposition of fanciness and football really doesn't work for the Hercules of the Hokies;  something far more down to earth is surely required.  I'm thinking breakfast, I'm thinking pancakes, I'm thinking grits, I'm thinking gravy, and most of all I am thinking ham.  Lots and lots of ham, with a nice pepper relish on the side.

Oddly, no Turkey legs.  I'm sure Frank has seen enough of them.

And what's next  for the Hokies?  Will Bud Foster finally get his chance to go ape-shit for reals for reals?  Or will Shane Beamer continue the Beamer dynasty?  Or will Tech look farther abroad for their next coach?

If it was me....I'd hire Sylvester Stallone to just kind of pretend to be a coach.  You know.  Head down to the field with his ball cap on, have the team chase some chickens around, mumble some mumbo-jumbo about fighting and victory and how he never stopped asking you to stop being a woman so please don't ask him to stop being a man and maybe how if I can change, and you can change, then maybe everyone can change.  The play calls?  Those can be left to the coordinators, the bench coaches.  A head's coaches job is to inspire, and nothing is more inspiring than old man hopped up on HGH who once pretended to be a boxer, a veteran, a mercenary, and now a football coach.

And, if Frank's recent performance is anything to judge from, a head coach is also supposed to look sort of bemused whenever his team totally and completely mess up, or a call goes against them, or what have you. You may be wondering if I think Stallone actually has the acting ability left to handle that.  Well, I do, and I think he would do a damn fine job of it too.  

Yes, it would be something to see!
 

Weekly Rundown: Cruz, Debates, and the EPL is Back!

So much is happening that I could write three blog posts!  But I think in the interest of brevity (at least for me, maybe not for you) I will combine all three into a weekly rundown that will probably never be repeated.
So, the weekly rundown.

Cruz!

The Ted Cruz Magical Mystery Tour parked the bus in Washington for the past couple of weeks as Cruz found himself fighting against the twin evils of Iran and Planned Parenthood...which is not such a great joke because there are plenty of people around who actually do think that Iran and Planned Parenthood are Evil.  Still, he found time to make bacon with a machine gun.  This from a man who wants to be leader of the free world. Our attitudes towards guns makes us the laughing stock of the entire world.  But, it has given Cruz nearly 800,000 views in four days.  He has his viral video.

Later, Rachel Maddow rather joyously pointed out that Ted Cruz wasn't actually using a "machine gun" to cook bacon, but rather a semi-automatic AR-15, as if he didn't understand that himself.  Who cares. The elitest left really does little to make the progressive agenda more palatable with crap like that.

So...he's in Washington, but then the Senate braked for its August recess.  How a body that is supposed to be emblematic of all that America is can subject itself to the odious European practice of the August vacation is beyond me.

However credit to Cruz:  instead of departing for the nearest nude beach with a basket full of stinky cheese sandwiches and mineral water he actually flew to Cleveland (CLEVELAND!) for the first debate of the Republican primary season.  In my opinion he did not distinguish himself on a stage shared with 9 other front runners, but on the other hand he didn't do anything to torpedo his campaign, and his tough talk on ISIS may garner him some additional support.

Now Cruz finds himself on his first Bus Tour of the Campaign, winding his way comfortably through the southeastern states that are most likely to garner his support.  Maybe if he can win them over, others will
follow.

Magical Mystery Tour Stats:

Days on Campaign: 139

Days on the Road: 73

Miles traveled:

Lbs of Chicken Consumed:44890

Debate!

I confess, I watched the debate only because Trump was in it, solely for the entertainment value.  Clearly he stole the show, but I really don't believe he is going to win the nomination.  If he does, I don't see how he could win.  But I'm sure people said the same things about Jesse Ventura in Minnessota and we all know how that went.  Sometimes crazy things happen.

As to the others:  I guess I have to agree with the talking heads.  Kasich impressed me with his compassionate conservatism...the prospect of him and Rubio joining forces on a ticket intrigues me.

But aside from those guys I don't think I could throw my support behind any of the other Republican contenders; they are all simply too far to the right.  I'm wary of anyone who suggests we could defeat ISIS in 90 days (one does not simply walk into Mordor) and I was also alarmed by how much many of the Candidates waxed about religion influencing their decision making.  I could go on and on about that, maybe one day I will.  But for now let me simply say that while I have no problem with one's religion forming the ethical basis for their decision making I do have a problem suggesting that Jesus would be rather proud of  our New American Empire built on a military industrial complex with vast consumption of goods at its capitalistic heart. I'd like to know how the Candidates figure on that, as Jesus took a rather flippant view of the great Empire of his day and its treatment of the poor and the oppressed.

Anyway, as long as Trump is in the debates I must admit I will probably keep watching.  Otherwise I'll catch the eventual nominee in the presidential debates later on next year.  Next year!  Ugh....

Premier League!

It's back!  Oh Glorious Day its back!  As I write we are currenlty 15 minutes into the first game of the new Premier League season, Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur currently locked in a 0-0 draw.  Few things make me happy consistently as settling in to watch a match, and the fact that the Men in Blazers show has also returned makes the new season only sweeter.

But there is one dark cloud on the horizon.  Mr X, our resident Cleveland Browns fan, has just "decided" to become a football fan and has "decided" without much consideration to follow Arsenal. To prove that his blood bleeds red and white (which I guess it actually does, come to think of it, red and white blood cells and what have you....)  he printed out a couple of articles on the history of the club, which I don't think he actually read, and showed them to us at work to burnish his credentials.

This alarms me greatly.  If he actually watches the games and gets informed, becomes an actual supporter of Arsenal, well, then more power to him.  Welcome to a wonderful new world.

But I doubt he will do that.  He will not watch the games, get updates on his phone, and just use it as an opportunity to further insinuate his never-ending stream of bullshirtery into my life.

I have the sense that if a real Arsenal supporter was to walk into the office and talk for football with Mr. X for a few minutes, Mr. X would probably receive a punch in the face for daring to call himself a fan.

Well, we'll see.  For now, to the football!

Women's World Cup: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Yes, it's been a few days, but the recent US Women's National Team (USWNT) World Cup triumph needs to be talked about before it fades into the fog of NFL Pre-season workouts and general fucking hooplah over such things as how many Republicans are running for President. So:

Women’s World Cup:  The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.  

The Good 

The US Women's Team, of course!  One can wax poetic about them for days and days, we should be spreading rose petals in their paths, we should recognize them as the conquering heroes that they are.  Men in Blazers noted after the semi-final victory against Germany that the team showed a level of tactical flexibility and desire that we could only wish the Men's team had.  Their backline was fantastic, their reserves were deep.  Jill Ellis had the courage to alter formations and personnel until the team was invited to attack with better midfield support, which was lacking in the first few games.

If they were the good, they were also the lucky.  God, they were lucky.  Lucky that Julie Johnson didn't get red carded in the game against Germany for denial of a goal scoring opportunity.  Lucky even in the yellow cards to Rapinoe and Holiday that suspended them for the game against China and forced the US to find a different and ultimately better way forward.

Carli Lloyd was a revelation, offering what The Guardian says may be one the greatest individual American performances in a final across any sport.  And Hope Solo?  Credit the back line all you want, but when Germany won a penalty in the semi-final and her against Sacic she channeled the utter craziness of a Jens Lehman, moves away from the goal, takes a little walk about, gets a drink, stalls for time, makes Sacic think a little too much.  Maybe that doesn't matter at all, maybe it doesn't get Sacic inside her head, but maybe it means everything.  She misses.  If that penalty goes in, its a different game with maybe a different outcome.

And do we maybe owe a slight tip of the cap to those contemptible French as well?  They took the Germans into PKs and wore them down.  The Germans had to play like devils against them, and I think it left them a little flat for the game against the US.

The Bad 

A pet peeve of mine is bad sports commentary.  Admittedly, it is difficult to define what "good" sports commentary is, but bad commentary usually involves one or more of the following:

1.  No pauses, just constant yammering
2.  Too many commentators in the booth
3.  Constant harping on mistakes
4.  Constant thoughts on what this or that team should be doing instead

The Fox team of JP Dellacamera, Tony DiCicco, and Cat Whitehill hit all of these things.  They never shut up.  They were quick to point out flaws in the US game, even when they were up 5-2 in the final, and just couldn't stop talking about how the team should have done this or should be doing that.

Now, that being said, some of the time they turned out to be correct (DiCicco advocated moving to a 3-3-4 as the US struggled, which is kind of what they ended up doing).  But the constant criticism was just too much.

The fact that there were three commentators were awkward as well.  JP Dallacamera did, in all fairness, a pretty good job, but DiCicco and Whitehill seemed interested mostly in who could be more critical, who has the best soccer mind.     If they are going to do that, they should be joining Mr. Lalas in the pre-game, post-game, or half time shows.

And then of course there is Dr. Joe, the rules guru.  Fox started having a rules person you could break to during their NFL coverage and its for good reason; deciphering an NFL rule book requires you to pass the bar exam in at least 3 states.

But soccer is a simpler game.  Don't use your hands.  Don't kick players in the groin for no reason (unless you are Jens Lehman, then its probably okay).  The offsides rule is kind of tricky, but once you get it you get it.  A soccer foul is kind of subjective in the application and severity, and there is often discussion as to whether something was or was not a foul and if it did or not deserve a card.  Referees, at least to the casual observer, seems mostly to manage the level of violence in the game and make sure it stays in hand, and enforce a handful of rules that are easy to grasp.

Now that's for the casual fan.  In reality, I am sure, it is much more involved.  If you want a challenge, check out The Guardian's weekly "you are the ref" segment.

But there were no such conundrums in the games I saw, and so Dr. Joe was basically left saying if he thought something deserved a card or not, or is something was a penalty or not.  Any commentator worth his salt can do that.  Hell, I can do that.  And yet, there he sits in a little booth surrounded by papers and books and charts...what the heck is all that stuff for?

The Ugly

FIFA perhaps.  The decision to allow the tounrament to be played on artifical turf was deplorable.  FIFA of course had their huge scandal break before the World Cup, and it was wise of Sepp Blatter to stay home - having him hand out the winner's medals would have certainly soured the experience.  But then he was also the one who said the women's world cup would be more interesting if they wore tighter shorts...

But then there is the rest of us.  Search deep in your heart and ask yourself questions of equality.  The women's world cup was great, the games were good, lots of quality was on display.  Just as we celebrate marriage equality by saying that love is love, perhaps we should say after watching this world cup that football is football.

And yet it seems that the USWNT is a little sister compared to the USMNT, held higher than the WNBA but perhaps not quite so high as the 1967 Cleveland Browns.  And it's a shame.  Carli Lloyd puts in an incredible performance, one for the ages, something not done in the men's or women's game since 1966 (score a hat trick in a World cup Final), and yet here we are talking already about Hackenberg's arm and Russell Wilson's chastity belt.

But let me point the finger back at me too.  If that was the men's team, if Carli Lloyd was Clint Dempsey, I'd probably still be drunk on sheer elation alone, and Mr. Dempsey would be a hero worthy of being tattooed on whatever patches of skin Kat von D has not yet inked over.

But that notion is laughable.  The Women's team has achieved way more then the men's team, even as the women's game gets better and better throughout the rest of the world.

Clearly, New York City at least has deemed the team worthy of a ticker tape parade.  I'm sure the environmentalists will be unhappy about this (actually, if you read the article, it amazing how many people seem to be a little sore about it) -- but maybe for a day, they can set aside their qualms and let the US celebrate a worthy win.

What a Cleveland Championship Would Mean

And no, I don't mean the Cavaliers.  But if you clicked on this link because you thought it was about the Cavs, well, consider this a good old fashioned clever trap.

This past weekend was a big weekend in sports.  For me the most significant moment was when Barcelona defeated Juventus 3-1 in the UEFA Champions League Final.  I didn't have a lot invested in the match emotionally, though I like watching Barcelona (and in particular Messi) play when I can and so I was happy that they won.  They took the treble, having won their league, their domestic cup, and the Champions League all in the same season and that is a huge achievement.

Most significant for most other people was American Pharoah's Triple Crown win.  We'd been waiting for this for years, FOR YEARS, and I remember as a kid thinking how awesome it would be if another horse could finally break through the deadlock, and getting so excited when a horse would get through the Derby and Belmont Stakes, and the disappointment when that horse inevitably lost in the Preakness.  And yesterday it FINALLY happens and...

...And everything is the same.  Nothing has changed. I feel no different in a world where we have seen a Triple Crown winner than I felt in a world where it had not been done for nearly 40 years.  The sun shines no brighter, beer doesn't taste any better, cheese doesn't keep in the fridge any longer than it used to.  It has changed my life not a jot.

In all truth sports has very little effect on me.  I am buoyed if my beloved Chelsea FC wins, mildly happy when the Orioles win, a little bummed for a very brief time if they lose.  With a few notable exceptions championships are won and lost, glory is realized and defeat is tasted, and all in all the effect on my life is practically nill.

There is one Championship that would change everything though.

If the Cleveland Browns win a championship, that will effect me directly.

The effect may not be huge, admittedly, but it would be noticeable.  As I've mentioned before I work with a diehard and delusional Cleveland Browns fan and if they ever win a Super Bowl I know that I will never hear the end of it.  I will be reminded of it daily, with T-shirts and commemorative hats and God knows what else, but if they can slap "Cleveland Browns Super Bowl Champions" on it I guarantee you it will be bought, horded, and held for future reminiscence and re-sale for some serious moo-lah.  Wouldn't be surprised in the least if he got it tattooed on his on person, on his back or ass or maybe in tiny letters on his calves.

Thankfully it appears I have little to worry about.  Vegas is currently giving odds between 66 - 100:1 for the Browns to win.  The odds of the next "Expendables" movie being not good but merely watchable are better even than 100:1, though not by much....

The saddest thing about all of this is that if I had never met Mr. Cleveland I'd probably be overjoyed to see a lovable bunch of ragtag bran muffins win the Championship.  To go from such depths to the Super Bowl and win? It would be an incredible story, the kind of thing Disney movies are made from.

But now?  It can never be.  That particular avenue of potential happiness has been closed off for me, perhaps not forever but certainly for a good long while.

So my favorite football team this season?  The Steelers, always.

My second favorite team:  Who is playing those gosh-darned Cleveland Browns.

Blatter Must Scatter! Blatter Must Scatter! Blatter Must Scatter!

Allow me to add one more voice to the chorus of people calling (and hoping for!) Sepp Blatter's downfall.

This morning when I heard that plainclothes Swiss detectives had arrested a number of FIFA officials in their hotel I desperately hoped that Blatter was among them.  But like any good mob-boss he has insulated himself from the crimes of his organization, letting the Capos take the fall.

Okay, okay -- I don't know for sure that Sepp Blatter is the source from which all corruption springs forth at FIFA.  But there is no question that during his near 20 year presidency corruption rumors have dogged the organization.  He has done little to root it out, the smoke from the as yet unproven fire billowing more and more with each passing year.

While the officials arrested today (under the auspices of the United States of America -- USA! USA! USA!) have not been found guilty, in most other cases the scandal would be enough to bring about the end of the governing administration.  Sepp Blatter stands for election tomorrow at the FIFA convention.  I have a horrible feeling that somehow he will manage to be re-elected.

If Blatter has a shred of honor or love for the game of football, he will step down, he will not seek re-election, he will somehow close out his time as the leader of FIFA and leave the organization completely. Under his tenure football has grown into a money making machine and its popularity knows few bounds (the door to Anne Coulter's cold heart is one).  At the same time, if the allegations are true and the charges hold up, corruption and bribery has grown rife.  Guilty or not, he's the captain of this gluttonous grafting ship.  He should take responsibility, do the right thing, and step down.

    

The Restraining of Mario Balotelli

This is just a great picture:

An Angry Mario Balotelli is restrained by fans after an altercation on the pitch with Manchester United's Chris Smalling. Picture Credit:  Paul Ellis / AFP / Getty Images

This picture was taken shortly after an incident between Liverpool's star crossed striker Mario Balotelli and Manchester United's Chris Smalling.  During a challenge Smalling sort of pushed Balotelli into the advertising boards ringing the pitch.  Balotelli then held onto Smalling's foot as he tried to walk away and Smalling, knowing that Super Mario was already on one yellow card yet clearly losing his head, said something to Balotelli concerning his mother or his country of origin or the fact that his banana bread was still bland and leathery.

The fans know Mr. Balotelli all too well, and upon hearing the insult took it upon themselves to keep Balotelli from lashing out again at Smalling, possibly earning himself a second yellow and an ejection to boot. Balotelli actually thanked fans on his facebook page for keeping him back.

I love this picture because it just captures a huge range of human emotion.  There is the childish anger, white hot rage, jaw dropping shock, thoughtful disdain, drunken indifference, eager anticipation, and then there is that poor old lady in the front row, covering her hat lest it be blown off in the vitriolic wind.  It's a fantastic shot.

And incredibly, in the middle of it all, is just sheer absurdity.  A man in a Superman shirt wearing some kind of floppy hat who can merely shake his finger in self righteous indignation at the insulting Smalling, a kid who looks, honestly, flat out drunk to me.  Not "War Machine" drunk, but pretty well stoned.  And above him is a tired man who kind of reminds me of a disapproving Kermit the Frog.

Classic.  Just a classic.  Well done Paul Ellis.  Well done.




 

Boo to the Hoos!

Tonight I almost did two things I never do.

The first was I nearly watched a college basketball game.  I can't tell you the last time I actually sat down to watch a college basketball game -- it may have been when Michigan's fab four lost to UNC in the NCAA men's final in 1993 (the one where Chris Webber called a time out he didn't have).

The second was that I was prepared to root for UVA.  [Continues on in my best Jerry Seinfeld Voice] UVA!  Me!  A Virginia Tech graduate!  Rooting for UVA!  I even wore the new Virginia Tech T-shirt I got for Christmas today (though it's been so cold it's been concealed under a fleece all day).  I can't root for UVA!  It's UVA!

I don't know why.  I do value excellence, the unbeaten run is (or, rather, was) impressive, and it has been covered in the local news with a laconic sort of excitement, and while it wasn't infections maybe it was just nice to think about something sports wise besides Tom Brady's deflated balls or Chelsea's uninspiring draw today against Manchester City.

Furthermore, it seemed safe.  Virginia Tech and UVA are so far apart this year in the ACC Standings, it just didn't seem like I'd be harming anything if I rooted for UVA this one time.  And I don't really care much about Duke either way.  What harm could it do?

Well, take heart Hokie fans.  It turns out I did neither.

I was only able to watch the first few minutes of the game.  Soon it was 8:00 and my wife starting watching Torchwood on Netflix, desperately trying to finish the series before it gets dropped tomorrow at 12AM.  Sure, she could watch it on her computer, but she prefers to watch it on TV (which, unlike everybody else in this country, we only have one of).  So I played the martyr and sacrificed myself in the name of domestic tranquility, because Torchwood is important to my wife and college basketball isn't really that important me.

That's what marriage is all about.  I know, I read it on the back of a matchbox.

I did, however, see the pregame festivities.  After the Duke players were introduced in a rather leisurly fashion the arena went dark and the music started playing, and out on the middle of the floor there was this fucking guy in a Cavalier's costume strutting around like Brian Johnson of ACDC.

Now, I feel that Lord Grantham and I, were he to invite me to dinner at Downton Abbey, would probably not agree on many things.  But one thing we would agree on, I am sure, is that pre-game pomp is unnecessary. The two teams should come out of the tunnel, shake hands, have the coin toss, and get on with the game.

The only pregame ritual worth seeing is when the Hokies come into Lane Stadium, and they start playing "Enter Sandman", and everybody starts jumping up and down in unison, and the sophomore engineering students are trying to get everyone to stop because they just learned about resonance in physics class and are worried that the motion of the students could result in a Tacoma Narrows Bridge event - in other words, an engineering disaster of incredible proportions.

But this little Diego Montoya, dancing to some kind of jams being pumped out to get the UVA fans up for a game they couldn't possibly be more up for?  Stupid.

Nice Goatee

It's like that gobbler sound Virginia Tech plays at football games on third downs.  "Gobble Gobble Gobble" holy crap motherfuckers its third down and the clarion call of the Turkey is calling us to defensive glory.  Let us cheer our asses off for the team!  Come on.  It's dumb, you can hear it on TV, and we look stupid.

So, long story short, the pregame ritual reset my spiritual compass and I found myself hating UVA once again with a cool passion.  Not the school or the people who go there (I actually have some good friends from high school who went there), but just the basketball team.  I wanted to see Duke put them to the sword.  And while I didn't actually see it (Torchwood marathon, remember?) and while Duke didn't exactly put them to the sword they at least punctured the hopes of hoos everywhere that their beloved basketball team would run the table.

And so, I am happy.  Not the good kind of happy, it's the happy that you need to go and tell your therapist about, because it is no good to be hateful and to take joy in other's misfortunes.  But happy is happy, and I will take what I can get.

Quest Fail due to Over Consumption of Sport!

So I didn't make it.  10 posts in 10 days turned out to be a bridge too far.  By the time I had the chance to write last night (i.e. the children were all mercifully, mercifully asleep) it was well past ten in the evening on New Year's Day.  I had been feasting on sports all day, and was groggy from ingesting too much football of all varieties.  I thought to myself, as I lay on the floor trying to squeeze in yet another game, that I should get up, get a cup of coffee, and complete the quest of 10 blog posts in 10 days.

But then I passed out on the floor, a victim of a football fueled bacchanalia.

There is such a thing, of course, as too much, even with sports.  I watched the equivalent of three soccer matches yesterday (one of which was actually EPL Breakaway on NBC Sport, which I enjoyed -- sort of like NFL Redzone for soccer covering 8 different matches at the same time -- another was Chelsea's 5-3 defeat to Tottenham, which I did not enjoy at all), and then on top of that tried to watch both college football playoff games.

I did try to cheat a little on the Oregon v. FSU game.  I recorded it on the DVR and started watching it about an hour and half after the kickoff.  Usually when I watch a football game I fast-forward just until I see the two teams line up for the snap, and then press play.  This cuts out the commercials, the time outs, the play reviews, the huddles, the time it takes for the two teams to heave themselves off the ground and get ready to smash into each other again.

But this hasn't worked as well this year, and it didn't work last night very well at all.  The game is just moving so fast.  Oregon sometimes only had 10 - 14 seconds last night between plays.  That's too many buttons to press too often which of course can lead to remote fatigue and possible carpel tunnel sydrome, so in the interest of viewer safety I have to just sit back and watch Oregon play.  I have yet to find an answer for the no-huddle offense.

Florida State?  It's easy to say they sucked, but if they hadn't made so many turnovers the game may have been different.  In the first half they looked like they were hanging in allright, didn't seem afraid of Oregon and were playing with them.  But don't mistake me for a Florida State apologist; I thoroughly enjoyed watching them get stomped.

I caught up with the end of the game just in time to start watching the next.  But it too proved a bridge too far.  I fell asleep when Ohio State were losing; when I woke up and staggered off to bed they were wining but I left the issue in doubt until the morning.  I am no fan of Ohio State, but I don't like Alabama either, so I guess I am...what?  Conflicticated.  Tired.  Ready to get back to the land of the living.

It's been a long vacation, my friends.  I'm not looking forward to getting back to work per se, but its time for life to assume its natural rhythm.  Though nearly everything around me is designed to entertain me I find long stretches of the day where I am just bored bored bored.  My 6 year old desperately needs to go back to school, for her sanity as well as ours.

That's all for now.  Be back in a few days, when I have something hopefully (though not likely) more interesting to say.

Propaganda!

Hey, hey hey hey hey hey HEY!

Listen, listen....that thing were Frank Beamer is dancing in the locker room like a fool after Virginia Tech's win?  Yeah, I don't think it's true.  I think it is an attempt by a small band of Virginia Tech alumni who are seeing to oust Frank Beamer as the Virginia Tech head football coach and install his son Shane on the throne of the Hokie Nation.  This video is intended to discredit Frank and add credence to their cause.  

The British did the same thing to Hitler when Paris fell to the Germans.  Propaganda film showed him dancing a gig after the city fell, when in reality it was just film of Hitler saluting his generals repeated to make it look like he was dancing a jig.  Why you would need propaganda to try and convince people that Hitler was bad news I don't know, but the British are a thorough people, if nothing else.  

I just don't see how a 68 year old man who is still recovering from throat surgery to the extent that he can't even stand on the sidelines can throw down moves as sweet as those shown in the video.  It's not possible.  

Diego Costa and his Ever Changing Sleeves

Diego Costa cannot seem to get comfortable at Chelsea.

It's not that he can't score goals (he has 13 goals in 15 Premier League games), and it isn't that he has found it hard to adjust well to the intensity of the Premier League, as can be seen in the photograph below.

Diego Costa in action against Liverpool's Martin Skyrtel.  I think in a pick game of soccer Costa would be likely to kick someone in the balls for no reason  and enjoy it.  He just has that look about him. 

No no no, none of that.  He's been great on the field for Chelsea, and well worth the millions of pounds to bring him to Stamford Bridge.

But dear dear me he can't seem to figure out what to do with the length of his sleeves.

Today he did it again.  He started the Chelsea' match against West Ham United with long sleeves and blue gloves, perfectly fitting for a cold, rainy Boxing Day in London.

But then when he comes out for the second half, he's wearing a short sleeved shirt, leaving the gloves in tact.

I think having the players change shirts is fairly common during half time.  You'll see a player going into the tunnel with a muddied of bloodied jersey only to see him start the second half with a clean shirt fresh from the laundry.  But most players -- in fact almost all players -- seem to stick with the sleeve length they had at the first half.

Not Costa.  I swear I've seen him change sleeve length between halves in at least three games.

And it isn't simply the changing of sleeves.  Most players find a sleeve length they like and stick with it.  Some are forever in short sleeves like Chelsea's John Terry, Stoke's Charlie Adam, Man City's James Milner.  David Beckham rather famously wore long sleeves throughout much of his career, even when arriving at the warmer climes enjoyed by the LA Galaxy (he eventually did switch to short sleeves and it was actually news worthy at the time).

Other players make sensible decisions based on the weather.  Chelsea midfielder Oscar favors long sleeves for much of the English season, but will wear short sleeves if it's warm enough.  You know, like any normal, well adjusted human being would do.

Diego Costa?  Here we are not quite halfway through the season, and we've been treated to a dizzying array of sleeve and glove combinations.  Long sleeves, short sleeves, 3/4 length sleeves (really!), all with or without gloves.

I understand that all athletes are probably just a little OCD about certain things.  When I ran track and cross country in high school I took very special care to lace my shoes just so.  Basketball players have their routines for taking free throws.  Maybe Costa's brand of OCD has to do with the heat exchange rate coming off of his hands and arms.  Maybe it has to be juuuuuuuust so.

Or maybe he makes changes based on how he's playing.  In today's game he had a brilliant first half but failed to score a goal in his long sleeves and gloves.  He comes out with short sleeves and gloves for the second half and scores Chelsea's second goal of the match, putting the game on ice.  Maybe there is some superstition here, maybe he is trying to find the sleeve and glove combination that will further unlock his goal scoring potential.  Or maybe the correct sleeve and glove combo is necessary to maintain the delicate balance of moxie and iron that make up a goal scorer on form.  Perhaps the small changes to the sleeves and hands are like making adjustments to the trim of a ship of war as it's loads change over time, seeking the attitude that gains a perfect blend of speed and power even as the condition of the ship is changing.  That perfect trim is ever changing, ever malleable, ever adjustable, ever tweakable.

I think this may be a problem for Nate Silver to solve.  You'd have to wait till the season has played itself out to increase the sample size (hopefully Diego Costa has at least 13 more goals in him), but then maybe someone should do a statistical analysis to see which sleeve and glove combo yielded the most goals.

For my money, by the accursed eye test, I think he is at his best when he plays with gloves and short sleeves.
Hail to The Guv'nor!  Go Chelsea!        

Yeah, for some reason some Chelsea supporters are trying to call him "The Guv'nor".  No idea why.  I love Chelsea Football Club (I lobbied hard to name Elizabeth "Chelsea"...no dice) but this....this is stupid.  I hope it doesn't stick.

Chelsea 1 - Man United 1.

After losing to lowly Sunderland in the League Cup on December 17, 2013, frustrated Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho made his often repeated boast that winning a match 1-0 was the easiest thing to do in football.

“If I want to win 1-0 I think I can as I think it is one of the easiest things in football. It is not so difficult.”

Oh, but it is.  

The comment was made in frustration, but is an apt summary of a favorite tactic of "the special one", especially in playing in major matches away from home.  It also makes being a Chelsea supporter an extremely stressful proposition.  

Today was a case in point.  Chelsea are playing away to Manchester United.  It was s a good game - Chelsea are soaking up pressure to a certain extent and attacking when it suits them, and Manchester United are doing most of the pressing and probing of a Chelsea defense that is for the most part about as impenetrable as the Death Star defenses;  and when one Man United player does successfully skim down the trench and find himself with a chance to hit home the lanky Thiboult Courtois is there to sweep up the pieces.  

Early in the second half Chelsea Legend Didier Drogba scores on a corner kick by swatting his walker at the ball as it flies by (that really isn't fair - it was actually a good near post header that was owed probably mostly to his long experience as a center forward.  Still - I was amazed he lasted all 90 minutes).  This was moments after Eden Hazard was in on goal and managed to shoot it right at United's keeper.  Chelsea seem to be running rampant for a moment, smelling blood.  

But Man U rally a bit and as Jon Obi Mikel starts to warm up on the sidelines I feel my heart tighten with fear.  Mikel goes in for Oscar, it's a defensive midfielder for an offensive one, and it signals that Chelsea are going to try to get out with 3 points on the goal of their geriatric striker rather than press for the all important second goal.  

Far be it for me to second guess The Great Jose.  If anyone can protect a one goal lead Chelsea can, seeing as they have 15 feet tall Courtois in goal and the ever faithful yet arrogant John Terry leading the backline. Mourinho may be "playing the percentages", thinking that if his team press for the 2nd goal they are more likely to give a goal up to United then they are just sitting back and playing to their strengths, especially with ol' Drogba playing up forward.  And it is true that a draw on the road is maybe not a bad result, though Chelsea have the quality to be unhappy without taking home a win.  

But in the back of my mind I felt that Manchester United, slow start though they have, still have the quality to somehow score one goal, even against Chelsea.  For the final 20 minutes my heart rises into my throat with every United attack, every free kick, every corner kick.  And just as I start to relax as the game finally goes into stoppage time, just as they are about to wrap up the win and go home with three points, the utterly thinkable happens:  Ivanovic fouls Di Maria (for which he was sent off, unfairly in my mind), which sets up a last ditch effort free kick.  

Past free kicks have been poor - either too low and easily dealt with by Chelsea's defense or so high that Courtois (who is like 28 feet tall) can just pluck them out of the air.  But not this time.  The kick is far enough off the line that Courtois must stay in goal, and Fellani has a header on goal.  Courtois makes an excellent first save but the rebound falls to Robben van Persie who slams it into the goal so hard I fear the net might rip off.  He pulls a Brandi Chastain in celebration, which his no-nonsense dutch manager (who I am starting to dislike greatly) later chastened him for.

I swear - "Dammit!" being my word of choice today, which all things considered is fairly conservative and decently tasteful selection - and slam my fist into the ground.  This hurts, a lot, and it reminds me that football is just a game, not to be taken too seriously.  I just do hope that the dropped  points don't come back to haunt my beloved blues.  

FYI - in pulling images for the blog I did a Google image search of Jose Mourinho.  Delightful!  If you want to see a study of facial expressions ranging from sheer to joy to bored derision, you can do no better.  

     

Surely Ed Gillespie Realizes That Only Donuts Can Buy My Vote

Listen.  Do you smell something?

It smells like crumpled suits and shiny shoes.  Hair gel and soap from the Hampton Inn.  A hint of aftershave. An odd aroma off gum covering the breakfast of coffee and campaign trail biscuits, and...what's that?  A whiff of tobacco, the cigarette quietly smoked outside the campaign bus in the predawn gloom while the press isn't watching, just to kind of take the edge off?

It must be a politician on campaign, arriving at the shipyard to press some palms and remind us to vote for him to be our Champion, lest the government decide that everything is groovy and we don't need a Navy anymore.

I've seen a number of state politicians grace the 46th street gate, but today it was none other than Mr. Ed Gillespie, Virginia's republican candidate for US Senator, going up against Mark Warner.

He shook my hand, asked for my vote, to which I said "okay" though I don't intend to vote for him, but then I stopped and asked him a question:  "What are you going to do about global warming"?

It was a question in honor of my Dad, who for a time would always answer those political questionnaires congressmen and women use to stay in touch with the constituents with a single query:  "What are you going to do about global warming"?  No one has ever answered him.

So it was Ed Gillespie's turn.  To his immense credit he stood there and actually answered the question, answered it honestly.  He recited a list of facts about how the US has worked very hard to lower emissions and make industry cleaner, but then said he wouldn't shut down our coal fired power plants if China was going to continue to build their own coal plants.

It's a valid stance to take from an economic perspective, but I don't agree with him.  I believe that global warming is real, and while I understand there are natural shifts in global temperature I have to believe that human activity is a contributing factor, though the question is to what extent.  I just think there are too many of us, we use too many resources, we spew too much shit into the air.  I believe at a certain point the Earth's ecosystems are not robust enough to handle it.  What is hard to guess at is the actual impact that global warming will have, how dire it will actually be.  I fear we are going to find out in the not too distant future, a future we have probably missed our chance as a global community to change.  Now we deal with the consequences.

Fun, yeah?

Anyway, so there is your answer Dad.  The answer is: not much.

But I didn't tell Ed any of this.  I knew he wanted to get back to greeting shipyard workers so I wished him luck, shook his hand again, and let him be.

And I left thinking:  "I kind of like that guy."

Contrast that with Mark Warner, and this horrible add which aired during Virginia Tech's debacle against Miami on Thursday night.

There are three things about this add that just make my insides writhe like a Slytherin Snake:

First, there is the statement that Frank Beamer said getting into the ACC was the best thing that ever happened to Tech, and Bruce Smith's confident assertion that coach is always right.

No!  No no no no NO! Tech rose to prominence in the Big East, and their early domination of the ACC was a function of their rise to national fame which happened in a different conference.  Since joining the ACC I would argue that the Hokies have been in a very slow decline, and now we've settled into the miasma of mediocrity that most ACC football teams demonstrate week in and week out.

Beamer is always right?  No!  As the team has fallen apart over the last two years the best that Frank can do is make twisted faces of utter disbelief on the sideline.  "How can we playing this poorly"? they seem to ask.  I don't know Frank, you are the coach, how can they?  Great guy and we owe a lot to him, but after this season he should be encouraged to retire so that he can go open a few more restaurants or write that romance novel that has been rattling around in his head for the past few years.  All things must end, and I hope that Thursday night was the death knell of Frank Beamer's tenure.  Let us move on.  

Third (and most important):  Why do I care if Mark Warner was instrumental in getting Tech into the ACC?  Even if I thought it was the right thing to do (which I didn't) and it had all turned out swimmingly, what does that matter?  Sure, it is something a governor should maybe do, if he can, but is that really the feather in the cap?  With endless war in the middle east, with Ebola sowing West Africa with death, with income disparity increasing, with the country's social fabric stretching and tearing, with the nation's finances in ruins, what does it matter if Tech got into the ACC or not?  Should we really be voting for any politician because he helped some football team change conferences?  That doesn't buy my allegiance, Mr. Warner.  A box of a dozen Krispy Kremes would, but that does not.

And I stopped watching the add thinking:  "I kind of don't like that guy".

Well.  I am still voting for Mark Warner, even though his stock has gone down in my book by a lot.  It's more because I don't agree with Ed Gillespie's policies and economics that anything else, and Mark Warner's alternatives are things I tend to agree more with.  That is a good reason to cast a ballot for or against a candidate, rather than some damned old football team.

Well, it was not to be.

About a week ago Condi and I were sharing a bland breakfast of bran flakes and coffee when our conversation shifted from issues geo-political to football.

Ms. Rice is, of course, on a committee of what must be a thousand people who have been tasked with deciding which four teams are the best in college football and therefore worthy of getting into the first ever NCAA FBS Division Playoff.  It is a long conversation, one that is already as tiring as how teams can increase their BCS rankings, but sitting in her breakfast nook on a sun dappled Sunday morning she assured me that in her mind the Hokies were in it after trouncing all over Ohio State at the hallowed horseshoe on September the 6th, 2014.  

"All they have to do," she told me as she prepared to demurely shovel more processed bran into her mouth, "is keep wining."

The Hokies were indeed in the conversation.  Playoffs were on the lips of the Hokie Nation, visions of glory danced before their eyes like sugar plum fairies with huge tits, people were hopping on to "Heyletstravelsomewhere.com" to see how much a trip to the championship game in Dallas would cost, and Frank was thinking that maybe with Tech in the Playoffs he would finally be able to open a successful restaurant in Hampton Roads.  It all looked very, very promising.

Challenges abounded, of course, and the first was getting past East Carolina University.

ECU!  Those fucking pirates!  They have often been tough to beat, and I remember when I was but 9 years old and ECU rolled into town and beat the Hokies on the holy ground of Lane Stadium.  After the game ECU fans cruised around Blacksburg in their pick-up trucks, spitting chaw out the windows and going up to little boys and girls saying  "The Hokies lost!  You are stupid!" and they'd steal the children's cheap supermarket playground balls and take them away to do God knows what with them...probably serve them on a plate doused in a vinegary barbecue sauce with a side of slaw.

I was one of those children.  They called me stupid.  And they stole my ball. 

I never liked ECU after all that.  

Even so, I found myself at work as the game got underway.  I took a peak at ESPN.com and I was stunned when I saw that ECU had racked up, quickly, 21 points on a misty day in Blacksburg.  It was so terrifyingly excellent that it conjured up visions of how Napoleon surprised the Russians at Austerlitz by attacking the Prazen Heights through a dense fog.  I expected either a smashing victory by the Pirates or a sterling comeback by the Hokies.

But then I got home and started watching the game and it became...awful really.  Desultory.  Dull.  I must admit that while the Hokies found themselves in a senseless struggle reminiscent of The Somme, with neither side willing to budge, bludgeoning each other to death in the trenches, I abandoned my team in their time of need to watch the first half of the Manchester City / Arsenal match (which was a rather exciting 2-2 draw).  I had recorded the soccer match, I could have watched it at any time, but I chose this time to do it.  I hear the alumni association is looking for me so they can take away my Fan Card, burn it, and sprinkle the ashes over the grave of the Widow Wadman, thereby excommunicating me from the Hokie Nation forever.  

They'll never find it.  I've hidden it in a place that they would least expect...along with the treasure.  

Anyways, I picked up the game again in the 4th quarter, and now things were hotting up nicely.  Virginia Tech had engineered a comeback the likes of which Frank Beamer had never been able to manage, the score was tied and Tech had the momentum.  And then...

And then it just all fell apart, in a poof of purple and black smoke.  

The Hokie's playoff chances prove to be elusive as supervillain Kaiser Soze. One second they were there, and then the next "Poof!", they were gone.

Stunned Hokie fans wept in the stands, Christ Episcopal took some advice from the Rolling Stones and painted their red doors black, and a clearly discombobulated and shell shocked Bud Foster gave a post game interview in which he said "you know" no less than 48 times in the span of no more than 5 minutes (really, my wife counted.  She was beside herself with laughter and I couldn't help but have my mood lifted by her rather delightful and extraordinarily Slytherin-like display of Schadenfreude).  

Are the playoffs out of reach?  Probably.  Not only is it very unlikely that Tech can play at a level high enough to get out of the season with the one loss and an ACC title (I just don't think they have the consistency), but even with that I think it will be quite hard now to convince the committee that Tech is playoff worthy; I'm sorry, but one can give Condoleeza only so many back rubs.  

Seriously, I think I'm getting tendinitis in my thumbs.   

     

Are We Still Talking About Tony Dungy?

Apparently I am about to.

Look, for the two past drives into work I have had to listen to Mike and Mike come kind of close to hauling Tony Dungy out into the street and calling him a bigot  for his comments on Michael Sam that were printed in The Tampa Tribune.  Even after Dungy clarified comments Mike Greenburg in particular was still astounded that Dungy could decide not to pick a player due to the "distractions" his sexual orientation would cause.

Greenburg's thinking is that Dungy's comments are inconsistent coming from a man who himself broke through barriers of prejudice, being one of the first (if not the first?) African-American coaches in the NFL.

I suppose I don't disagree that it seems ethically inconsistent that one who owes success in part to the civil rights movements of the 50's and 60's would deny someone front and center in the civil rights movement of our day their chance to....well, their chance to play a game...all because they are worried about the distractions that that would cause for the team.  And we all know how NFL coaches hate those damn distractions;  maybe if Payton Manning hadn't spent so much time making Oreo cookie commercials, he might have won a few more Super Bowls.  Still might, if his neck holds up.

But as I listen to the outrage over Dungy's comments, read the print wasted on all of this, I ask myself:  who cares?

It's not like Dungy's comments were particularly vicious.  He never says that Sam's sexual orientation should keep him from playing football.  His inclination not to pick Sam because of the distractions having the first openly gay player in the NFL on the team perhaps lacks a bit of courage, but I don't think it's something he should be keel-hauled for.  It's his opinion.  He's entitled to it.

In all honesty, I am not so sure I totally disagree with Dungy anyway.  If I was drafting players and I had to consider Michael Sam, I'd probably think long and hard about it myself.  There WILL be distractions, as much as the media derides that excuse, because the media will create those distractions. Heck, only this week the OWN network shelved plans to do a documentary about Sam's first season in the NFL.  If I'm an NFL coach, I am not sure I want the likes of Oprah Winfrey traipsing around my locker room, telling all my beautiful boys with their precious bodily fluids that "You are not here to shrink down to less, but to blossom more into who you really are" or to "Live from the heart of yourself.  Seek to be whole, not perfect."

No! No, goddammit no!  We must be perfect!  If that tackle doesn't pick up his blocker perfectly during play Blue 57 there is no way the QB will have the time for the tight end to break free from his man after confusing him with a little bit of the old chug-a-chug jukie-juke?  How can we expect to give 'em the ol' razzle dazzle if we don't execute perfectly?  We aim for perfection.  We strive for perfection.  We embody perfection! It's what the NFL is all about.

And when we aren't perfect I don't get Oprah Winfrey to give you a hug and tell you how special you are.  Fuck no!  I get coach Bibbido Tibbideau to yell at you in unintelligible creole with breath that reeks of bourbon and tobacco, obliterating all those voices from your mind so that in a semi-thoughtless state you will be able to focus on that one thing that matters most:  Giving those motherfuckers on the opposing team the OL BLEEPITY BLEEPIN' RAZZLE DAZZLE!!

What were we talking about?

Ah yes.

Here is a question:  What if Michael Sam isn't very good in the NFL?  True, co-SEC defensive player of the year and all that, but how many Heisman winners have we had that didn't have sterling NFL careers?  There is going to be immense pressure on any coach with Sam to play him, even if he isn't any good.  And if you cut him?  Get ready to be called a bigot, or worse.  If I were a coach, THAT is the distraction I wouldn't want hanging over my head, in addition to the whole Oprah Winfrey thing.

Look, if it was Jadeveon Clowney who was openly gay it's a no brainer - the man is worth any distractions that his sexual orientation may bring about, and it goes without saying that all of this would be easier if Sam was more of a lock. Jackie Robinson wasn't only black, he was really really good at playing baseball.  You'd be stupid not to have him on your team.  Still, it took A LOT of downright bravery in 1947 to put him on your club; I think if Sam was to football what Jackie Robinson was to baseball, his selection to the NFL today wouldn't require nearly as much courage.  It would be easy, and most of us would celebrate and those that didn't agree would probably just keep their mouths shut.  But with Sam maybe riding the bench, the media is going to demand that he get his chance, even if he isn't good enough to get that chance.

If Tony Dungy doesn't have the courage to draft a marginal player because he doesn't think its worth the media distraction that's his opinion, and I think it's understandable.  It doesn't make him a bigot, and I don't think it makes him a coward either.  It makes him a football coach, who when he does the calculus doesn't think the payoff will be worth the price.  I hope I would make the opposite decision in the name of social change, but I can't say that I would if I was in a coach's position, and my job depended not on breaking barriers but on winning football games.

Fortunately Sam does have his chance, he has been drafted.  He has the chance to show that he's worth it and prove to the real bigots and cowards who have been fairly silent that gay men have a place in the NFL, have the right to pursue that dream just as much as anyone else, just as other members of the LGBT community have a place in our society today, have the right to pursue their dreams, their life, their happiness, as anyone else in our Happy Republic would.

Good luck, Mr. Sam.