I love men. G Men that is! And my dad!

It's been just over a year since I wrote about professional team sports and exactly a year since my dad died. It's hard to believe it's been that long since both these things occurred. Let's revisit them today.

As you must know, (televised) sports are a big part of my life, so for it to have been this long since I wrote about them is astounding. 

Or is it? While I haven't written about sports, I've read about them almost every day. Earth to Matilda, there is a lot of brilliant sports writing on the internet. So brilliant, it made me think, "What's the point of me writing about them?" This negative attitude was partly compounded by the unearthing of a story I wrote in 8th grade that is on par with my most recent prose, in  both style and complexity.

The other problem is the three teams I pretend to know anything about (Giants, Mets, Liverpool FC) are three of the most well covered and passionately supported teams in their respective sports. You could read about these teams in hundreds or even thousands of other places. In fact, the whole internet is saturated with inane blogs about God knows what, just like this one. So why write anything at all? Why do anything at all? It's all been done. 


Ah ha! Ah ha! 


That's the point. It hasn't all been done and said. The world changes every second and there's always another point of view. There's always another story to be told. Plus, I crave the spotlight, however dim. So let's go for it!


Last year, I predicted that the Giants would defeat the Eagles at home 31-24, clinching the NFC East. Of course, that was the Matt Dodge punting to DeSean Jackson game, and the Giants went on to squander their next to chances to make the playoffs.

Well this year we're in baby! 

Side note: Who runs New York?? Woo! I went to Giants/Jets on Christmas Eve and the vibe at MetLife was fairly good natured. At least before the game, since both sets of fans secretly felt like their team kinda sucked. It was slightly less good natured after the game when the Giants faithful got their swagger back. It really was great to shut Rex's fat mouth.

He's actually doing a Globtrotters-style slide dribble with Felix Jones as the ball.

Anyway, after beating Dallas, which was just as sweet, we're in baby! A year ago, I wrote that the Giants were running the ball and rushing the passer well. This year, we're rushing the passer well! Yes, the pass rush disappeared for about 5 games after a strong start, but it's back now. This can be attributed to the return of Osi (he's still good!) and the continuted growth of the man-child, Jason Pierre-Paul. What can I say about JPP that hasn't already been said? He's an athletic freak who had a huge breakthrough about half way through the season, and now he'll play in the Pro Bowl. And guess what: HE'S STILL LEARNING! He's sharpening his instincts like an adolescent wolf who just joined the hunt. 

In other team news,

Eli: Elite

Cruuuuuz: Sick

Nicks: Still sick, despite the drop against da Skinz and the way he holds the ball like loaf of bread when he's running.

Rookie FB Henry Hynoski: Sooo fucking sick. You see those first down catches and a hurdle against the Cowboys?

Bradshaw/Jacobs: Not too sick this year, but they're showing signs of sickness. I've been really unimpressed with new center David Baas and the run blocking overall. O-Line, LB, and the secondary need help. Even without the injuries that have crushed these areas, they need upgrades.

Following a similar game plan from last week, the Giants will beat the Falcons 27-20 on Sunday. Then on to Green Bay! Woop! Woop!


We'll save in depth analysis of the Mets and LFC for another time. I'm too depressed to talk about the Mets, but the Pool cruised to a 5-1 victory over Oldham Athletic in the FA Cup today, with captain Steven Gerrard scoring from the penalty spot and Steward Downing netting his first goal for the club.


In a silky-smooth segue, the old man passed a year ago yesterday (1/5). I can't talk about, or think about, or play sports without thinking of him. I mean, I can, but you get my point. There's a strong connection!

It's been kind of a weird year. I was pretty pumped on 2011, but got thrown off track, early on. I can't believe it's been over a year since I heard his voice. Here's something that sucks: I had old voicemails he'd left me, and I was going to listen to them when I was ready. But then I updated my phone and *poof! they were erased! Bummer! So I never got to hear those again. I didn't mourn Steve Jobs for this reason. Also because I never met him. I know he made great products, but dang.


So dad, I miss you. You're with me every time I play golf and despite iTunes updates, I can still hear your voice.

What's new?

Hello friends. Have I really not posted here since August? That's pretty bad. Let me get you up to speed. 

The major event in my life over the last few months was my wedding. It was something. I don't really know what else to say about it. It really was...something. When I think about the day, it's almost like recalling a sex dream. Some details are crystal clear, while others are hazy, but either way you feel like you should have enjoyed it more at the time. That doesn't mean I didn't have fun at my wedding, because I most definitely did. See for yourself.

(A quick aside in regards to that footage: I know it was my wedding and I don't need to defend my actions, but I feel a little sheepish. Baaaah. The bottom line is that I simply cannot help myself. Last year, I sang B and the J's at a friend's wedding by request. I was asked, leading up to my big day if I would be singing again. My response was, "No. No one is singing at my wedding." Well you can see what happened. I knew the song would get played at some point that night, but neither bride nor crooning groom knew it would be played during the cake cutting. The song came on, and I just took off. My dad would have loved it and that makes me happy, then sad for a sec, then happy again.)

So yes, I had fun at my wedding. In fact, and I don't mean to brag, but a few people said it was the best wedding they'd ever been to. That's serious talk right there. But hey, our DJ killed it and the dance floor was full almost all night. Plus we had a great food, so what else do you want? Well, there are just a couple of things I would have changed. 


First, I wish Ria and I had been able to visit with more of our guests. We only made it to two (two?!) tables. We both felt bad about that. Along the same line, I can't believe I didn't introduce my grandmother to Ria's oldest uncle. They both speak Italian, and it would have been fun for them to meet. Probably. Also, maybe I would have drank a bit less because like I said, certain details are hazy.






As is often the case, after the wedding came the honeymoon. We visited Italy's beautiful Amalfi Coast. The food, the scenery, the people, all fantastic.

Fantastic.

So what else? Well, I've been spending a lot of time on my future advertising career. This term my team's products are The Golf Channel and Panama hats. Yes, just Panama hats in general. Did you know they actually come from Ecuador? Swear to God. I don't have anything to show you from those campaigns yet, but here's one for A&W Root Beer from last term.

CW: Scott Jones    AD: Joshua Sun

This and the other pieces of the campaign are trying to evoke some childhood nostalgia by playing off terms typically associated with alcoholic beverages. In this case, "buzzed." 


And I'm sure we'll all be more than buzzed over the holidays. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Great Equalizer

The other day, I decided to play nine holes at the executive course near my home. If you're unfamiliar with that term, an executive course is shorter, cheaper, and usually in worse shape than a regulation golf course. To help you remember this, just remember what a shitty job our nation's executives have done. By the way, that was business joke, not a political one, lest you think Barak isn't still my dog. Because he is. 

After getting an awesome parking spot, I realized I forgot my wallet at home. Giving up a money spot is bad enough, but it was made more painful when I saw mustachioed douche in a red Boxter waiting to claim what was mine. Each blink of his turn signal, dagger of light cutting through my soul. To be fair, it was my fault. To be even more fair, it was actually a Carrera convertible. I decided I wasn't meant to play golf that day, so I made a sandwich instead.

About 20 hours later, wallet in hand, I drove back to the course and, you're not going to believe this, scored the same parking spot I was forced to give up a day earlier. A sign! My first hole-in-one was only minutes away, I was sure of it. Now, I usually play the back nine at this course but today I decided to hit the putting green first, and play the front nine instead since it looked less crowded. And for the first three holes, it was.

I think I started bogey-bogey-par. I think. 

I definitely made par on the challenging 92 yard 3rd and that's when I realized the player I'd been staying ahead of was going to catch me. The log jam ahead allowed me to hit a few extra putts before it was my turn to wait at the fourth, a robust 291 yard par 4. As I sat, contemplating my place in the universe, a black woman with kind eyes walked over the hill, looking a little unsure of herself. 


"It looks like we're going to be waiting a while. You're welcome to join me. I'm Scott."

"I'm Nita." 

We shook hands and I was surprised by the firmness of her grip. As I learned a little about Nita over the next few hours, it made sense. I only could imagine how many handshakes she's exchanged over the years.


"I'm not very good." she said.


"Neither am I. I just have nice golf shoes." (Which I do, thanks Matt and Annie.)


"How long have you been playing?"


"Off and on since I was a kid."


"Well then, you're good. I've only been playing for about nine months."


She told me that she picked up the game just for the challenge of it. "I feel like if I focus on something, I can do it. Plus it's good for business. Customers want to play golf, so I figure I should try to at least be respectable at it."


Finally, we were able to tee off. The pressure was on, since Nita was convinced I was a young Sam Snead. Predictably, I hit a low hook that went nowhere.


"I told you I wasn't any good, Nita."


"Hit another one. We're out here for practice."


Love this woman. I accepted her offer, and hit it off the toe a bit, but it went straightish, just barely into the right rough.


"Woah! I didn't even see that one, it went so far!" God bless her, I only hit it 200 yards. Again, I love this woman.


She hooked her first tee shot, just like I did, but she was able to poke her second attempt into the fairway. My second shot went over the green, leaving me with a tough down hill chip shot, that ran well past the hole. Two putts for bogey. I forget how Nita did. She was actually pretty handy with the putter even though she seems to aim right and putts across her body. She also holds the putter below the grip. Later, I would try to get her to take a more conventional stance, but she found it uncomfortable. 


The next hole was a fun little down hill par 3 with a bunker protecting the front right, 114 yards or something. 

We had another wait, so I asked her what kind of business she's in that made her want to pick up golf. "Well I retired as VP of Volvo last year, now I run a consulting firm." Woah. The round took on a new complexion. At least for a bum like me. She wasn't a player, but she was a player. Ya dig? She was with Volvo for 30 years and worked her way up the ranks to VP of Human Resources, reporting directly to the CEO. Growing up in Virginia, she was a child of the civil rights movement and thinking about the obstacles she had to overcome to get where she was absolutely blew my mind.

"What club do you hit here?" she asked. "Uh, I've got this 54 degree wedge, it's more lofted than a pitching wedge. It's like a sand wedge." 

 "Now what do you mean by lofted? Does that mean it's heavier?" Wow, she really was new to the game.


"Well it is a bit heavier by nature, but loft refers to the angle of the club face."


"Wow, you can hit a sand wedge that far? Go for it."


Now, Nita hits driver on every hole, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she was surprised by my length. Anyway, I hit a nice high one to within 10 feet.


"Oh my gosh, that was beautiful!" Nita exclaimed. "It looks so pretty when you get it way up in the air like that!" I liked impressing her. Even more so, now that I knew she was somebody.


"Thanks, Nita. I hit that one pretty well." Yes, she pulled driver and hit a pretty good one just left of the green. I'd already established that she was ok with me offering tips here and there, but there was no way I could begin to explain the intricacies of the short game. She was on her own. And so, she skulled it across the green. I just missed my birdie putt and tapped in for par. Nita was into me for a Finski. Easy money. Just kidding.


After another par 3, we got to another driving hole. But again, they're all driving holes for Nita. I hit one solid, but a little left. Nita was in awe. Her drive was ok. She hit a few duffers and it looked like she was getting discouraged. 


"Nita, you looked up on that last one. This time, keep your head down, and I'll watch where it goes. Deal?"


"Deal."


What does she do, but hit a nice high fade, landing it about 12 feet past the cup, then spins it back, leaving herself with a gimmie and yells, "Yeah motherfucker! That's what I'm talking about! King Kong ain't got shit on me!"


Ok, that's not what happened. BUT, she did get it up in the air nicely for her most solid shot so far. Landed just short of the green. 


"Good deal, Nita?"


"Good deal!"


We bumped knuckles. I really enjoyed helping her, but my best tip was yet to come. I'd noticed earlier that she was playing her driver and longer clubs too far back in her stance and I explained to her why it's necessary when hitting driver to play the ball of the inside of your left foot. Once she made this adjustment, she drove the shit out of the ball. Ok, not the shit, but much, much better. She said that her $175/hr lessons didn't help her as much as that little tip did. I joked that I'd start charging her on the back 9. Hilarious, I know. Golf humor.


So we had fun the rest of the day. I mostly played bad. I learned that her husband's uncle is the late Larry Doby. Blew my mind for at least the second time that day. Juanita Doby has led an incredible life and it was a true pleasure to spend a few hours with her. Where else but on the golf course would I have felt comfortable talking to such an accomplished woman? Where else but on the golf course would our paths have even crossed?

A Simple Solution

As we start the second half of the 2011 Major League Baseball season, we've seen a record(?) number of first half manager and player ejections with 119 (and a few more over the weekend). Tigers manager Jim Leyland had this to say about the current climate in MLB:

"For some reason, it appears to me that the tension level is much more than it should be between managers, players, coaches and umpires. I know Joe Torre (Major League Baseball's executive vice-president of operations) is trying to get it resolved, but right now the tension seems worse. I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking throughout baseball. I'm not criticizing anybody in particular, but I'm making the point that we all have to work together to resolve this situation because it's getting out of hand." 

Why is everyone so jacked up? First, there are some bad umps like Angel Hernandez who regularly miss calls, causing the wronged team's manager to lose his shit. I also feel like umpires are out of position quite a lot. And of course there are always going to the "bang-bang" plays when the ump has to take a guess. But the real issue is that umpires are under more pressure than they've ever been under before. With high def TV and the networks having every camera angle possible, the viewer can instantly see when an umpire has blown a call. I've heard that arguing managers will tell umpires things like, "Wait till you see the replay. You're gonna look bad." Actually, I heard this from Keith Hernandez during a Mets telecast.

There's Leyland. Arguments could be a thing of the past.

But whether a missed call is an egregious or honest mistake, there's an easy solution. It's so simple that it must have been thought of already. A 5th (or during the playoffs, a 7th) umpire who has both the home and away television feeds and can automatically correct a missed call on the field. We can call him The Overlord. Why do umps have to leave the field to review a tough homerun call? Just let The Overlord handle it. Blown call at first base by a normally reliable umpire that costs a young pitcher a perfect game? The Overlord steps in. He can flash his ruling on the scoreboard. Reviews wouldn't take more than 10 seconds would they? Again, the camera angles, slo-mo, and HD are so good now, you can determine the call in one, maybe two replays. The natural pace of the game allows for these calls to be corrected before the next pitch is thrown. If the call on the field is correct, nothing happens. Look at replays in tennis. They take a few seconds, they're exciting, and they're conclusive. Maybe MLB can borrow some of that technology. In fact, I believe Japanese professional baseball already has. They'd better, since you're allowed to berate the umpire without fear of ejection.

Why can't this work? Seriously, tell me. Unlike the NFL, baseball doesn't manufacture opportunities for ad revenue. That's why the NFL will never improve (shorten) their replay process. So MLB wouldn't lose anything by adopting my idea. And don't even give me the "human element" argument. Isn't that what starts wars? The human element is overrated. Now, I'm going to immediately contradict myself. I don't think things like K-Zone or Pitch Trax should be used to officially determine balls and strikes. I just don't. That really would slow the game down. But most other plays could be reviewed with minimal effect on game time.

Embrace The Overlord.

Tour de France 101

The Tour de France is a 5000 mile bike race across France and some other countries. It started a long time ago and the riders used to smoke cigarettes during the race, but now they drink water. There are approximately 2000 participants, although only a half dozen have a realistic chance to win. The race takes place over three weeks, but the first week is kinda bullshit since all the race courses (called stages) are mostly flat and not too challenging. In the 80's, the Tour was starting to lose popularity when riders started realizing they had no chance to win the thing. So race organizers introduced other little prizes for some of the less talented riders to compete for. 

For example, the rider who maintains the least body hair over the three weeks gets to wear the coveted Pinkish Jersey. In fact, most of the Tour is based around who gets to wear the prettiest shirt, which makes sense since France is a very fashionable place. The riders are split up into different teams with names that have nothing to do with cycling. Teams are usually named after banks, cell phone manufacturers, GPS devices, electronics stores, and ballroom dances. Each team has either one or zero team members who can win. So if you're on one of the teams with a guy who can win, you want to be that guy, otherwise you are called a "domestique" which is French for "sucker who has to work his ass off so someone else can maybe win, but there is no way you will win."

So after the first week of competition (which again, is almost totally meaningless) the Tour reaches the mountain stages. This is when all the phonies who have been kicking ass start to suck, and all the guys who have been sucking start to kick ass. These stages are obviously very challenging, requiring increased fluid intake. Bonus points are awarded for riders who can hit spectators with their empty water bottles. 

The main pack of riders is called the "peloton" which is French for "platoon." It's a great place to be since you can draft, chat with your competitors, even give them a pinch on the hiney. Also, if the peloton consists of 500 riders, the 500th rider gets credited with the same finishing time as the first rider in the peloton. No one ever said the Tour de France is fair. However, this is also where absolutely brutal crashes take place. NASCAR fans love this.

Motorcycles and pedestrians can also compete in The Tour, often with tragic results.

There are a lot of unwritten rules in the Tour. If someone's chain comes off, you have to let them catch back up so they don't cry. You're also allowed to actually hold on to moving cars during the race, but not for too long. So at the end of the three weeks, the rider wearing the Yellow Jersey wins. The sneakiest riders will grab the Yellow Jersey when the guy who has it is sleeping. Also, the Tour is really only 2 weeks and 6 days long, since the last day is only ceremonial, with many riders sipping expensive champagne while riding their bikes up the Champs Elysses, or however you spell it. They change the rules all the time, so see you next year for the updated lesson. Au revior!

The Month of May

This was supposed to be a recap of three magical weekends in May, the last of which was Memorial Day Weekend. Now that was almost two weeks ago, so this whole thing just seems stale to me. This type of thing can happen to lazy-ass bloggers who don't post shit in a timely fashion. What's wrong with me? Maybe that will be the subject of my next post. Could be a long one. Look for it in six weeks. Anyway, here's some old news.

First was my bachelor party in Las Vegas, May 12-15 (some punished themselves by staying through the 16th). This was my third trip to the gambling mecca, but it would go on to provide my first true Vegas experience. Most of us stayed at the Cosmopolitan, which just opened this year. The place is gorgeous and and so is the clientele.  By the time we left, the section of my brain responsible for processing the sight of beautiful women in tight cocktail dresses was completely fried. I became numb to it.

Vegas, when you're partying at a pool or in a club has a feel like no other city I've been to. People relate to each other as if they're sitting together on a roller coaster. You know how if you end up sitting next to a stranger, that person is your best friend for the next two minutes? Vegas is like that all the time. Some of the good vibes can probably be attributed to my status as "the bachelor." Girls loved me.  Anyway, the weekend was insane, and having this particular group of people together is something I'll never forget.

There are some friendly folks in Vegas.

Now, after a weekend like that, there's always going to be an emotional let down. It reminds me of how I felt after seeing Avatar in IMAX 3D. In this case, Vegas is Pandora and everyday life is the movie theater parking lot. It just seems so dull. Luckily, my friends Eric and Lauren were getting married back home in Jersey the following Saturday. They ended up getting the best weather of the weekend, but more importantly, the trip home gave me another big party to look forward to. Besides my own wedding, of course.

Every trip home is incredibly special to me, but this one took on extra importance since I'm not making my usual August trip this year. This four day trip would be it until Christmas, so I had to get my money's worth. Sleep would be minimal. Alcohol consumption would be maximal. Wait, that's the case every time I go home...hmmm. Anyway, the wedding was awesome. There was even a great after-party complete with freestyle rap battles. I want to get into details, because those little things that make home home are what I love the best but I'm not doing that today.

Memorial Day Weekend isn't as special out here in CA as it is at the Jersey Shore. There, summer lasts from Memorial Day until Labor Day and that's it. Mem Day Weekend is a massive kickoff and people really go nuts. The whole area changes. It's not all good, but mostly it is. Here, summer lasts from March until November and Memorial Day Weekend doesn't have quite the same cache. But be that as it may, it was a pretty sick weekend. Plenty of beach and BBQ action. I also shot the best game of pool in my life. I might do a whole post about it, it was that good.

Basketball Jones

It has been unbelievable out here over the past week. Or, when you think about it, totally believable. The weather in southern California varies somewhere between, "I'll tell you what, can use this rain" and "We really should be naked right now." And I am, so I think I'll take the laptop off my lap.   

I did something out of the ordinary the other day. Several times over the last month or so, I've seen this older and I'm guessing, Indian man shooting hoops on our little half court. I only say he's "shooting" because I assume he's trying to get the ball in the basket. He's basically doing a soccer throw-in, just hucking the ball towards the rim. The backboard is covered his dusty ball marks and he only ever makes one with a lucky bank-in. On the bright side, he does have about a thousand offensive rebounds. So when I saw him yesterday, I decided I was going to teach him how to shoot. Whether he liked it or not.

I threw on my sneakers and JV basketball practice jersey, grabbed my ball and headed to the court. We exchanged nods and smiles and he says, "You play too." Uh oh, possible language barrier. "Yep, I'm gonna shoot around a little bit." I replied. "I'm Scott." He didn't understand. Shit. Why am I doing this anyway? I put my hand on my chest and said repeated myself. That did it. "Emmanuel." he said. I put a few up and wondered if I was qualified to teach anyone how to shoot. I don't think he noticed though, since he dribbles with his head down. I'll cover ball handling with him next time. 

Now Emmanuel is probably 60 and has a round, brown, beautiful gut hanging out of his t-shirt. Not a model of fitness like me. When one of his field goal attempts explodes off the glass or front-rim as 90% of them do, this poor guy has a 20-30 foot walk ahead of him which he covers with a slow, waddling gait. I wonder if those walks are sad for him or if he accepts them as the consequence of throwing up bricks. Or in his case, cinder blocks encased with lead. I must have thought he was sad, otherwise I wouldn't be there.


This was quickly justified (in my mind) by the smile I got the first time I got one of his rebounds and saved him that walk. He gave me a relieved "Thank you!" I'd won his heart. Now, for his mind. This was my chance. "I've got a better way for you to shoot. Want to see?" I don't know if he understood me fully, but I think I also mimicked his shooting motion at some point. He came over. We stood in the middle of the lane and I said, "Do like me." Now I was speaking his language. I held my ball straight out in front of me, shoulder high and he did the same. Then I bent my elbow to a 90 degree angle and rotated my wrist until I was in shooting position. He followed my motions relatively well. "Now put your left hand on the other side like this." I shot my ball (swish) and held my follow through, Ewing style, to show him how to finish by "reaching into cookie jar." 


"So it's a one handed shot, and you use your left hand to guide it. Ok?" "Yes, yes." Well I forgot to tell him about using his legs and he completely took his left hand off the ball and as a result his shot fell about two feet short and left of the basket. I corrected both mistakes, but now he adopted more of a shot putting motion. He was still taking his left hand off the ball! This pissed me off a little bit. It's the simplest part! So I explained it one more time and went back to my own shoot around, hitting 3's, pull-up J's, the usual. He tried a couple more my way, but pretty soon he was back to looking like Rory Delap. 

So maybe it wasn't a successful lesson. But I tried.