Sometimes Twitter is a frivolous waste of social media. Other times, it's a way to stay updated by the minute on important events in our world. Tonight, it was both. I had far too much fun this evening live-Tweeting the Chicago Blackhawks vs. St. Louis Blues game...in Haiku form. What I put out into the world of the Internet may not have been up to my hilariously witty standards, but it following a strict 5-7-5 syllabled pattern!
Below is the stream, copy and pasted tediously for your chronological convenience. Enjoy.
WhatSarahTweets:
Welp, Blues scored quick goal.
The Stanley Cup is fading.
Adios playoffs.
WhatSarahTweets:
Don't worry you guys.
I haven't given up hope.
Not looking good though.
WhatSarahTweets:
Hossa screwed that up.
Nothing that Crawford could do.
Offense step it up.
WhatSarahTweets:
Don't take 30 shots,
And not score a single goal,
It's not Sunday night.
WhatSarahTweets:
Tried to fast forward,
Remembered not DVR,
Damn you live TV.
WhatSarahTweets:
Wonder if Sharp's healed,
Or just playing through the pain,
Because team needs him.
WhatSarahTweets:
Reaves elbows Kane's head,
Good call by the referees,
Now Reaves is in box.
WhatSarahTweets:
Slashing on Crombeen,
Hawks are on 2 man PP,
Need to score right here.
WhatSarahTweets:
If they can't score here,
Says tons about the offense.
Get it in the net.
WhatSarahTweets:
According to Pat Foley,
Q says winner of PP,
Will win the whole game.
WhatSarahTweets:
Will this be 3rd game,
Where the Hawks struggle to score,
Despite 30 shots?
WhatSarahTweets:
Could say that's the game,
After Hawks blew that PP,
Guess we'll wait and see.
WhatSarahTweets:
Q switched up the lines,
Can tell that things aren't working.
That's a big fat duh.
WhatSarahTweets:
Ends first period.
More ugly hockey tonight.
Not looking good, folks.
WhatSarahTweets:
Missed that second goal.
Was watching the Heat/Bucks game.
2-0 St. Louis.
WhatSarahTweets:
Boyfriend teasing me.
About my hockey haikus.
Sorry, not sorry.
WhatSarahTweets:
THANK GOD, HOSSA.
Please, god, don't take back that goal.
Likely will reverse.
WhatSarahTweets:
Oh, please, Toronto.
Give Hossa redemption goal.
But, not looking good.
WhatSarahTweets:
Yeah...not a good goal.
This is hockey, not soccer.
Got hyped for nothing.
WhatSarahTweets:
Oh, dear, Pat Foley.
Calling Toronto "War Room".
So hilarious.
WhatSarahTweets:
HOLY CRAP, WAR ROOM.
Lots of angry Blues players.
This could change the game.
WhatSarahTweets:
No complaints here, though.
I'll take Hossa's soccer goal.
If it means a win.
WhatSarahTweets:
Marian Hossa.
12th goal in 21 games.
'Atta boy, big Hoss.
WhatSarahTweets:
Even if Hawks win,
No guarantee for playoffs,
All about the points.
WhatSarahTweets:
Who did they just show??
Blues player cries like baby.
Hockey, not soccer.
WhatSarahTweets:
Kopecky scores goal!
No doubt that was a clean one.
Good offensive play.
WhatSarahTweets:
Hawks tied up 2-2.
Offense finally stepped up.
Second period. :)
WhatSarahTweets:
Kia hamster song.
Commercial never gets old.
Do, di, dippity.
WhatSarahTweets:
Offense looks solid.
Really ripping it out there.
Leddy broke his stick.
WhatSarahTweets:
Dick move by Backes.
Clearly Toews was protecting.
Not his battle here.
WhatSarahTweets:
Sharp missed 7 games.
Good to have him back tonight.
Plus, he's pretty cute.
WhatSarahTweets:
Yeah buddy, Leddy!
Defenseman getting involved!
Hawks up 3-0.
WhatSarahTweets:
Leddy playing hot.
What a good looking, clean goal.
Love those long slap shots.
WhatSarahTweets:
Energy is up.
Can tell Hawks are in a groove.
Hoping stays thru 3rd.
WhatSarahTweets:
So many near-fights.
Should have been more on Sunday.
When I was there live.
WhatSarahTweets:
That's the end of 3rd.
Hawks offense looks pretty hot.
3 unanswered goals.
WhatSarahTweets:
31-4-3
When leading in the second.
Make it 32?
WhatSarahTweets:
3rd has now started.
Eek! So many fights tonight.
Interesting game.
WhatSarahTweets:
Stewart scores for Blues.
Great shot, Crawford couldn't save.
Game tied 3-to-3.
WhatSarahTweets:
Hawks on the pp.
Hoping they do something here.
Let's not do shoot out.
WhatSarahTweets:
Regulation ends.
Going into overtime.
Offense can win it.
WhatSarahTweets:
Seabrook shot speaks loud.
Hawks can never quite get it.
Always no cigar.
WhatSarahTweets:
"There's Tree-Tirty-Tree"
Says Pat Foley, the legend.
So ridiculous.
WhatSarahTweets:
Crawford takes a puck
Straight to the facial region.
That had to hurt.
WhatSarahTweets:
OH YEAH TAZER BOY!
Hawks beat St. Louis 4-3
With overtime goal!
WhatSarahTweets:
Hawks have 95.
7th place seed in Western.
Will they make playoffs?
WhatSarahTweets:
That's all for the night.
It's been too much fun, kiddos.
Hawks pull off the win.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
NCAA Tournament...Whatever.
I'm a basketball fan poser. I will admit that fully without any hesitation or shame. My heart is split between hockey and football, and just like in the Harry Potter novels, the more times it rips in two, the harder my life becomes (major, major nerd points for that one).
It may seem strange, considering I come from a state with arguably (or factually, depending on where you're from) the largest, most heated and deep rooted college basketball rival in the world. Naturally I grew up cheering for the Louisville Cardinals men's team, and the Tennessee women's team. I went to several games of both. Having Pat Summitt sign my copy of her autobiography was one of the top ten moments of my childhood. Once they were a respectable team, I cheered for the Tennessee men as well. Occasionally I even cheered for the Louisville women, recognizing girls I'd seen in the gym from my days at Louisville volleyball camp.
Whatever.
It's never been that I didn't understand the game, or even truly enjoy watching it. I've converted my significant other (although he'd never admit it) to cheering for the Cards through forced weekend watching. I went to my first game at the new, gorgeous YUM! center this year, sitting in the third row of the student's section and cheering on my team while my friends flirted with frat boys. I'm dedicated to the teams I love, but not the sport itself.
That's why, when filling out my obligatory NCAA tournament bracket, I had Tennessee and Louisville in the National Championship, with the Cards taking home the trophy. Laugh all you want. I'm not an idiot, I just don't care enough about the sport to watch anyone but "my" schools play. If I'm going to cheer on anyone, it's going to be my boys. And I put my money where my mouth is.
Did I honestly believe either of them would make it that far? Like I said, I'm not an idiot. Did I predict Louisville going out first round to the educational joke of the state (behind the University of Kentucky, of course) MOREHEAD!? Absolutely not. Come on. This is a school where the frat stars strut around campus wearing shirts with "I <3 MORE HEAD" printed on the front (There's a space! It changes the name of the college to a request for additional sexual activity! Get it? GET IT!??).
Whatever.
As if I haven't lost all basketball credibility enough by admitting my complete lack of interest in watching anyone but my own team play, I didn't even get to watch Tennessee or Louisville play in the tournament. I was in class both times checking the scores on my phone.
At this point my only involvement with the Final Four is sending good vibes to whoever is playing Kentucky and staying away from Facebook during game time as to avoid the redneck, incoherent bragging of idiot UK fans.
Whatever.
It may seem strange, considering I come from a state with arguably (or factually, depending on where you're from) the largest, most heated and deep rooted college basketball rival in the world. Naturally I grew up cheering for the Louisville Cardinals men's team, and the Tennessee women's team. I went to several games of both. Having Pat Summitt sign my copy of her autobiography was one of the top ten moments of my childhood. Once they were a respectable team, I cheered for the Tennessee men as well. Occasionally I even cheered for the Louisville women, recognizing girls I'd seen in the gym from my days at Louisville volleyball camp.
Whatever.
It's never been that I didn't understand the game, or even truly enjoy watching it. I've converted my significant other (although he'd never admit it) to cheering for the Cards through forced weekend watching. I went to my first game at the new, gorgeous YUM! center this year, sitting in the third row of the student's section and cheering on my team while my friends flirted with frat boys. I'm dedicated to the teams I love, but not the sport itself.
That's why, when filling out my obligatory NCAA tournament bracket, I had Tennessee and Louisville in the National Championship, with the Cards taking home the trophy. Laugh all you want. I'm not an idiot, I just don't care enough about the sport to watch anyone but "my" schools play. If I'm going to cheer on anyone, it's going to be my boys. And I put my money where my mouth is.
Did I honestly believe either of them would make it that far? Like I said, I'm not an idiot. Did I predict Louisville going out first round to the educational joke of the state (behind the University of Kentucky, of course) MOREHEAD!? Absolutely not. Come on. This is a school where the frat stars strut around campus wearing shirts with "I <3 MORE HEAD" printed on the front (There's a space! It changes the name of the college to a request for additional sexual activity! Get it? GET IT!??).
Whatever.
As if I haven't lost all basketball credibility enough by admitting my complete lack of interest in watching anyone but my own team play, I didn't even get to watch Tennessee or Louisville play in the tournament. I was in class both times checking the scores on my phone.
At this point my only involvement with the Final Four is sending good vibes to whoever is playing Kentucky and staying away from Facebook during game time as to avoid the redneck, incoherent bragging of idiot UK fans.
Whatever.
Monday, March 7, 2011
The Future is a Scary, Scary Place
There's an old episode of Friends where Joey is listening to a radio broadcast of a Giants game on a big, clunky, portable radio at a funeral.
In a perfect world, Friends would still be on the air. If the same classic comedic situation were in an episode today, I'd imagine it would be slightly different. Joey would be watching his New York Giants live on an iPad, interrupted by ads every 30 seconds.
In a perfect future, Friends would be on the air 30 years from now. An aged Joey would probably be watching your New York Green Giants on an iPadXI, live in 3D, with interactive custom advertising pitching him his favorite brands.
The sports world is constantly changing. Most notably, the way we interact with sports is changing. From the live game experience to the way we interact from our couches at home, the relationship between fan and team has evolved in the last 30 years - and will likely continue to evolve for the next 30.
If we were to somehow capture the overall picture of sports today, put it all in a time capsule, and bury it for 30, opening it in the year 2041 and looking back would be laughable.
In 2041, advertisements and sponsorships will consume every single aspect of professional sports. If you thought the New York Red Bulls were taking it too far, give it a few years. We'll have the Chase Chicago Bears playing the American Express Indianapolis Colts. Chad Ochicinco will be looked at as a pioneer of name changing to boost ones' career. Except, instead of players turning a surname into a number, we'll have players selling the rights to their last name to the highest bidder. Suddenly, there will be a lot more Mr. and Mrs. Nike and McDonald's running around.
Athletes won't just be influenced by their sponsors. The taboo of performance enhancing drugs will be a thing of the past. The latest, greatest injectables will be shot into the body of every athlete, creating teams of superhuman MonStars a la Space Jam. Sure, they'll all die before they're 40, but they'll look damn good for the two decades they're in the spotlight.
The prices we're willing to pay for prime coverage of our favorite sports will go through the roof. Cable and satellite package options will explode, as every professional team has a 24-hour news channel at its disposal. Don't worry though, actual live games won't be broadcast on these channels. They'll be over saturated with live streams of players' Tweets and twitpics of their latest adventure on their private jet. As for ACTUAL games? They'll still be limited to the multi-billion dollar contracts fought over by the big four empire channels.
If over dramatic future-predicting fiction is anywhere near what the actual future of sports will look like, count me out. I'll be more than willing to be the old geezer (at the ancient age of 50) rambling on about the "good 'ole days" and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.
In a perfect world, Friends would still be on the air. If the same classic comedic situation were in an episode today, I'd imagine it would be slightly different. Joey would be watching his New York Giants live on an iPad, interrupted by ads every 30 seconds.
In a perfect future, Friends would be on the air 30 years from now. An aged Joey would probably be watching your New York Green Giants on an iPadXI, live in 3D, with interactive custom advertising pitching him his favorite brands.
The sports world is constantly changing. Most notably, the way we interact with sports is changing. From the live game experience to the way we interact from our couches at home, the relationship between fan and team has evolved in the last 30 years - and will likely continue to evolve for the next 30.
If we were to somehow capture the overall picture of sports today, put it all in a time capsule, and bury it for 30, opening it in the year 2041 and looking back would be laughable.
In 2041, advertisements and sponsorships will consume every single aspect of professional sports. If you thought the New York Red Bulls were taking it too far, give it a few years. We'll have the Chase Chicago Bears playing the American Express Indianapolis Colts. Chad Ochicinco will be looked at as a pioneer of name changing to boost ones' career. Except, instead of players turning a surname into a number, we'll have players selling the rights to their last name to the highest bidder. Suddenly, there will be a lot more Mr. and Mrs. Nike and McDonald's running around.
Athletes won't just be influenced by their sponsors. The taboo of performance enhancing drugs will be a thing of the past. The latest, greatest injectables will be shot into the body of every athlete, creating teams of superhuman MonStars a la Space Jam. Sure, they'll all die before they're 40, but they'll look damn good for the two decades they're in the spotlight.
The prices we're willing to pay for prime coverage of our favorite sports will go through the roof. Cable and satellite package options will explode, as every professional team has a 24-hour news channel at its disposal. Don't worry though, actual live games won't be broadcast on these channels. They'll be over saturated with live streams of players' Tweets and twitpics of their latest adventure on their private jet. As for ACTUAL games? They'll still be limited to the multi-billion dollar contracts fought over by the big four empire channels.
If over dramatic future-predicting fiction is anywhere near what the actual future of sports will look like, count me out. I'll be more than willing to be the old geezer (at the ancient age of 50) rambling on about the "good 'ole days" and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Hasta La Vista, Season.
It's not a stretch to say I'm a self-admitted bitch. While I'd do most anything for my friends and family, I don't always have the best attitude. That's sort of the same outlook I have on the Hawks going into the pre-playoff stretch.
Yes, I love them. I'd do most anything for them. In fact, I'm trying to make watching and writing about them a career. But right now? They friggin' suck. Hockey is a long season, and even though they've gotten hot the last few games, January and early February were exhausting to watch.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe my expectations were too high for this season. I understand that we lost the bulk what made our cup-winning team a cup-winning team, but I still went into the season pretty optimistic.
Yeah...that's gone. Now we're clawing to even make the playoffs. We were ranked 7th for about 48 hours, then were bumped back down to 9th. Not even those 48 hours were enough to get me hot and heavy. Why? Because, in the eyes of this pessimistic bitch, even if we get into the playoffs we won't go far.
That's not to say that it wouldn't absolutely thrill me if the Blackhawks got a horseshoe up the ass and made a decent playoff run - or, god willing, won it again. But any fan who realistically thinks that is an idiot.
The team simply hasn’t gotten it together this season. Not to diminish the brute masculinity of the sport by throwing out buzzwords, but there’s no “chemistry” on the ice. There hasn’t been the magical combination of lines that has pushed the team down a path to the cup. And to make a bolder accusation, maybe there’s simply not enough raw talent. It’s time to let go of the idea of holding onto the Cup and go ahead and slap the “rebuilding year” label on the season.
Regardless of the fact that my cup dreams have disappeared faster than Duncan Keith’s teeth count, I’ll still be watching all the way to the end. Maybe I’m just that dedicated of a fan. Or maybe it’s because I write about them for a living.
Yes, I love them. I'd do most anything for them. In fact, I'm trying to make watching and writing about them a career. But right now? They friggin' suck. Hockey is a long season, and even though they've gotten hot the last few games, January and early February were exhausting to watch.
Maybe it's just me. Maybe my expectations were too high for this season. I understand that we lost the bulk what made our cup-winning team a cup-winning team, but I still went into the season pretty optimistic.
Yeah...that's gone. Now we're clawing to even make the playoffs. We were ranked 7th for about 48 hours, then were bumped back down to 9th. Not even those 48 hours were enough to get me hot and heavy. Why? Because, in the eyes of this pessimistic bitch, even if we get into the playoffs we won't go far.
That's not to say that it wouldn't absolutely thrill me if the Blackhawks got a horseshoe up the ass and made a decent playoff run - or, god willing, won it again. But any fan who realistically thinks that is an idiot.
The team simply hasn’t gotten it together this season. Not to diminish the brute masculinity of the sport by throwing out buzzwords, but there’s no “chemistry” on the ice. There hasn’t been the magical combination of lines that has pushed the team down a path to the cup. And to make a bolder accusation, maybe there’s simply not enough raw talent. It’s time to let go of the idea of holding onto the Cup and go ahead and slap the “rebuilding year” label on the season.
Regardless of the fact that my cup dreams have disappeared faster than Duncan Keith’s teeth count, I’ll still be watching all the way to the end. Maybe I’m just that dedicated of a fan. Or maybe it’s because I write about them for a living.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Classless Southerner or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Blame My Parents
This morning at brunch, my boyfriend tried to explain baseball positions to me using miniature coffee creamers. This was difficult for him, as I was far more interested in the many flavors available than the lesson at hand (Did you know they make white mocha flavor now?? Life changing moment.).
Like most personality flaws I possess, I blame my lack of interest in baseball on my childhood. If my life was a sitcom (which I all too often imagine it is), now would be the time where chimes would play and I'd go off into a dream state a la Scrubs. It would go something like this:
Therapist: And why, exactly, do you think it is you never liked baseball?
Me: Well - *sniffle* - doc, it's just that my dad always loved Tennessee football, and we lived way out in the country far, far away from the big city. I never had a team to root for. I never got to learn the game. *sob*
Therapist: And how does this make you feel?
Me: LIKE MY PARENTS DIDN'T LOVE ME! *wail*
And, close curtain.
Dramatic fiction aside, I really never knew much about baseball. Just like hockey, it was something I was never exposed to. Unlike hockey, when I moved to Chicago, I still didn't really take an interest.
I've decided that, just like my multiplication tables, instead of actually taking the time to learn it, I'm just going to stick my nose in the air and act like it's irrelevant to my life. Don't judge me. I was never good at math.
An actual conversation between baseball fan, fellow sports writer, and all around badass friend Mary Mizura and I:
Me: I hate writing about baseball. That's going to be the first beat writer I'm recruiting for my site when it's launched so I don't have to do it.
Mary: I love baseball! It's like the ballet.
Me: Yeah, I've never been to a real ballet, just the Nutcracker when I was a kid. And when I saw Les Mis and Phantom in London I was hammered. I'll stick with hockey and football, where my lack of class is appreciated.
Who needs imaginary therapy when you've got friends to lead you to the roots of your problems? Clearly, I don't posses the maturity, patience, or all around finesse it takes to really appreciate a sport that has nine innings and six minutes of action.
Coffee creamer lessons or not, the most I'll ever really watch is a few innings. What I can appreciate, though, is seven innings of beer being sold, A-Rod's arms, and the bars surrounding Wrigleyville.
Blame my childhood.
Like most personality flaws I possess, I blame my lack of interest in baseball on my childhood. If my life was a sitcom (which I all too often imagine it is), now would be the time where chimes would play and I'd go off into a dream state a la Scrubs. It would go something like this:
Therapist: And why, exactly, do you think it is you never liked baseball?
Me: Well - *sniffle* - doc, it's just that my dad always loved Tennessee football, and we lived way out in the country far, far away from the big city. I never had a team to root for. I never got to learn the game. *sob*
Therapist: And how does this make you feel?
Me: LIKE MY PARENTS DIDN'T LOVE ME! *wail*
And, close curtain.
Dramatic fiction aside, I really never knew much about baseball. Just like hockey, it was something I was never exposed to. Unlike hockey, when I moved to Chicago, I still didn't really take an interest.
I've decided that, just like my multiplication tables, instead of actually taking the time to learn it, I'm just going to stick my nose in the air and act like it's irrelevant to my life. Don't judge me. I was never good at math.
An actual conversation between baseball fan, fellow sports writer, and all around badass friend Mary Mizura and I:
Me: I hate writing about baseball. That's going to be the first beat writer I'm recruiting for my site when it's launched so I don't have to do it.
Mary: I love baseball! It's like the ballet.
Me: Yeah, I've never been to a real ballet, just the Nutcracker when I was a kid. And when I saw Les Mis and Phantom in London I was hammered. I'll stick with hockey and football, where my lack of class is appreciated.
Who needs imaginary therapy when you've got friends to lead you to the roots of your problems? Clearly, I don't posses the maturity, patience, or all around finesse it takes to really appreciate a sport that has nine innings and six minutes of action.
Coffee creamer lessons or not, the most I'll ever really watch is a few innings. What I can appreciate, though, is seven innings of beer being sold, A-Rod's arms, and the bars surrounding Wrigleyville.
Blame my childhood.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
NBA All-Stars Could Not Care Less
I've been back home in Kentucky this week, and haven't had much quality time with sports. Luckily, today was different. First, the Hawks were on NBC. This is a huge deal, as generally there's no shot in hell of getting to watch any hockey from south of the Mason-Dixon. My family got to witness the stress of a shootout, and was confused as hell as to what I was hollering about the whole time.
Then, less fortunately, the NBA All-Star game was on.
I'll be the first to honestly admit, I didn't watch the entire thing. I caught part of the first quarter while out to dinner with my father. The game looked slow as hell and I didn't have much interest in rushing home to see the rest (has anyone besides me noticed that I've already used "as hell" as a simile twice in this post? Not to mention, the use of the verb "hollering"? Kentucky has a serious affect on my accent).
I turned on the end of the game, about halfway through the fourth quarter. I assumed, seeing that there was four point difference, that I'd get to catch a few minutes of good basketball. Needless to say I was disappointed.
Never before in my life has one solitary moment reaffirmed a core belief of mine.
I grew up in a household that turned their noses up at professional sports. Granted, this probably would have been a much different experience if we'd lived anywhere near an actual pro team, but, regardless. I remember watching pieces of pro football or basketball games with my dad, and him pointing out how college kids just had more "heart".
This firm, passed-down belief dimmed a bit when I moved to to multi-team city. Having teams to cheer for, combined with huge accusations that most college kids get paid anyway, balanced my loyalties a little bit- until tonight.
Come on. There were two freakin' minutes left with four freakin' points separating winner from loser, and these guys were meandering down the court like it was a goddamned field of daises. I've seen more intensity in the peewee church basketball leagues my little sister used to cheerlead for. It made me long for the 90's gangster rap scene where being from the East or West actually meant something.
I understand that no one wants to get injured before heading back to their home team. Really, I get that. But from the bits that I saw, this game was just pathetic.
It was so disappointing to see multimillionaire players who were obviously not giving even 50% to this game, wander up and down the court. Kobe Bryant easily scored nearly 40 points and had the MVP trophy tossed to him with open arms. Not that this was even a real accomplishment: there was absolutely no defense played - not that that's much different from most NBA games. Even the offense was pathetic to watch. Literally no emotional expression was shown when a player would miss a shot.
For lack of better terms, these guys just clearly did not give a shit.
I've never been so convincingly reminded why my heart - and spending money - will always stay with college teams. NBA All-Star players can collect their checks, hop on their private jets, and head back to their home teams. If they don't give a shit about this game, neither does this fan.
Then, less fortunately, the NBA All-Star game was on.
I'll be the first to honestly admit, I didn't watch the entire thing. I caught part of the first quarter while out to dinner with my father. The game looked slow as hell and I didn't have much interest in rushing home to see the rest (has anyone besides me noticed that I've already used "as hell" as a simile twice in this post? Not to mention, the use of the verb "hollering"? Kentucky has a serious affect on my accent).
I turned on the end of the game, about halfway through the fourth quarter. I assumed, seeing that there was four point difference, that I'd get to catch a few minutes of good basketball. Needless to say I was disappointed.
Never before in my life has one solitary moment reaffirmed a core belief of mine.
I grew up in a household that turned their noses up at professional sports. Granted, this probably would have been a much different experience if we'd lived anywhere near an actual pro team, but, regardless. I remember watching pieces of pro football or basketball games with my dad, and him pointing out how college kids just had more "heart".
This firm, passed-down belief dimmed a bit when I moved to to multi-team city. Having teams to cheer for, combined with huge accusations that most college kids get paid anyway, balanced my loyalties a little bit- until tonight.
Come on. There were two freakin' minutes left with four freakin' points separating winner from loser, and these guys were meandering down the court like it was a goddamned field of daises. I've seen more intensity in the peewee church basketball leagues my little sister used to cheerlead for. It made me long for the 90's gangster rap scene where being from the East or West actually meant something.
I understand that no one wants to get injured before heading back to their home team. Really, I get that. But from the bits that I saw, this game was just pathetic.
It was so disappointing to see multimillionaire players who were obviously not giving even 50% to this game, wander up and down the court. Kobe Bryant easily scored nearly 40 points and had the MVP trophy tossed to him with open arms. Not that this was even a real accomplishment: there was absolutely no defense played - not that that's much different from most NBA games. Even the offense was pathetic to watch. Literally no emotional expression was shown when a player would miss a shot.
For lack of better terms, these guys just clearly did not give a shit.
I've never been so convincingly reminded why my heart - and spending money - will always stay with college teams. NBA All-Star players can collect their checks, hop on their private jets, and head back to their home teams. If they don't give a shit about this game, neither does this fan.
Monday, February 14, 2011
YOU Get a Valentine! YOU Get a Valentine!!
Once again this year, I'm lucky enough to have a lovely, wonderful Valentine- go ahead and gag/roll your eyes now. While we already celebrated Valentine's Day with a fancy dinner and present swapping, I can't forget the other men in my life: the athletes I (pretend) I know and (sometimes) love.
Jay Cutler
What's the fun in Valentine's day if I can't dramatically throw a box of chocolates at the television a la Legally Blonde? Since I'm still mad at him for bitching out of our final shot at a Super Bowl, the most he can hope for from me is a drunk voicemail slurring resentment. You, Jay, will get nothing, and you will like it.
Kyle Kuric
For the University of Louisville guard, I believe something shiny is appropriate. In an upset victory of Syracuse on Saturday, Kuric led the team with 23 points. This, combined with an ugly Kentucky loss, was enough to start my day off right. So, Kyle darling, you get some fancy man jewelry. Jewels for you, Kyle Kuric! You go Kyle Kuric!
Wayne Rooney
A dozen roses. A classic, for a classic. Rooney scored a beautiful, breathtaking bicycle-kick goal on Saturday against Manchester City, and therefor earns a treat from me this Valentine's Day. However, soccer isn't as near and dear to my heart, so there's no dirt on my shoulder when his roses are dead in a week.
The New York Islanders
With a combined total of over 300 penalty minutes, Friday's matchup was less of a game and more of a bloodbath. While some may disagree, I think that fighting is one of the most wonderful, hilarious parts of hockey. It's what makes is the testosterone-driven, brutal sports that it is, as opposed to looking more like a lacrosse/soccer hybrid on ice. Plus, the Penguins are a dirty, dirty team. This was a grudge match played for revenge after a 3-0 lost that left goalie Rick DiPietro debilitated on the ice after a nasty brawl. So, to the Islanders I give a giant pack of hand-decorated elementary-school-style Valentines, complete with stickers and candy and the whole she-bang.
So, while my real-life Valentine received the perfect presents of his own, I didn't forget the other men in my life. I'll be expecting my gifts in return. Tik-tok, gentlemen!
Jay Cutler
What's the fun in Valentine's day if I can't dramatically throw a box of chocolates at the television a la Legally Blonde? Since I'm still mad at him for bitching out of our final shot at a Super Bowl, the most he can hope for from me is a drunk voicemail slurring resentment. You, Jay, will get nothing, and you will like it.
Kyle Kuric
For the University of Louisville guard, I believe something shiny is appropriate. In an upset victory of Syracuse on Saturday, Kuric led the team with 23 points. This, combined with an ugly Kentucky loss, was enough to start my day off right. So, Kyle darling, you get some fancy man jewelry. Jewels for you, Kyle Kuric! You go Kyle Kuric!
Wayne Rooney
A dozen roses. A classic, for a classic. Rooney scored a beautiful, breathtaking bicycle-kick goal on Saturday against Manchester City, and therefor earns a treat from me this Valentine's Day. However, soccer isn't as near and dear to my heart, so there's no dirt on my shoulder when his roses are dead in a week.
The New York Islanders
With a combined total of over 300 penalty minutes, Friday's matchup was less of a game and more of a bloodbath. While some may disagree, I think that fighting is one of the most wonderful, hilarious parts of hockey. It's what makes is the testosterone-driven, brutal sports that it is, as opposed to looking more like a lacrosse/soccer hybrid on ice. Plus, the Penguins are a dirty, dirty team. This was a grudge match played for revenge after a 3-0 lost that left goalie Rick DiPietro debilitated on the ice after a nasty brawl. So, to the Islanders I give a giant pack of hand-decorated elementary-school-style Valentines, complete with stickers and candy and the whole she-bang.
So, while my real-life Valentine received the perfect presents of his own, I didn't forget the other men in my life. I'll be expecting my gifts in return. Tik-tok, gentlemen!
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