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.

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.

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.

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!

Canada Blames Underwood for Fisher Trade

For a country that prides itself in being the birthplace of hockey, someone really should send a memo to the radio stations letting them know how trades work.

Ottawa's 105.3FM has banned all songs by Carrie Underwood after her husband, Mike Fisher, was traded to the Nashville Predators from the Ottawa Senators.

A rep from the station made the following genius comment:

“We know Mike Fisher is not to blame for this trade but feel he was lured away from Ottawa by a country-music superstar. Sure, she’s pretty. Yes, she can sing. But can she play hockey? Can she put one on the top shelf with a slap shot? No!”

Seriously? Really? You really think that's why Fisher was traded there?

I understand that losing a player to another team doesn't give fans the warm and fuzzies. Trust me, as a Blackhawks fan, I'm familiar with the feeling. And, Fisher was the Sens for a decade, so a certain amount of attachment is bound to occur.

But blaming Carrie Underwood for the trade? Seriously? Somehow I doubt that when two major professional sports teams are talking playing trades they're considering what would be convenient for the little lady.

Maybe it's the country music fan in me that makes me jump to Underwood's defense. Or maybe it's the fact that blasting "Undo It" on the radio this summer got me through a major heartbreak. My ridiculous reasoning aside, while I'm sure Nashville will be thrilled to have the hockey star and country cutie in town, I highly doubt that was their only motivation for bringing him in.

Actual Reasons the NFL Drama Sucks

Yes, I'm referring to it as "NFL Drama". Why, you may ask, did I choose a word that makes most people immediately think of teenage girls? Because, my dear readers, once you dive waist deep into the pile of various issues, that's the umbrella word that really encompasses it all: drama.

Ridiculous, unnecessary drama.

The idea of a bunch of full grown millionaire men sitting around a room stuffed with lawyers could be comical. However, the fact that these pissing contests could very well effect my Sunday afternoons in the fall makes it significantly less funny. In fact, the more I think about it, the more infuriating certain aspects are. Here are three that really raise the blood pressure:


Lockout Coverage

It's going to be increasingly annoying to hear the daily predictions of "experts" that actually have no idea what's going to happen. One guy will convince you that there absolutely is no shot in hell of any sort of football being played for the rest of eternity. The next one will tell you you're an idiot if you don't go ahead and stock up on beer now for the preseason games, because they are positively happening.

This is going to continue every single day until some sort of decision is made. We're going to be abrasively attacked by this former player of that attorney who will give us hope and then crush our spirits. And these goons will get top-billed coverage daily until some sort of decision is made.

My advice? Don't bother getting attached to any one prediction.

Wanna know what will happen? Yeah, so do the experts. No one knows. What's the prediction!? No one really knows. When will we know?! No one knows. Can we count on a season!? No one knows.

Seeing a pattern here?


They're arguing over millions, I'm scraping together lunch money.

Today on the train a homeless blind man yelled at me for not giving him change.

I had to then explain to him that, no, kind sir, I will not be giving you the change that I know you hear jingling around the bottom of my purse, because otherwise I'm not going to have any money with which to purchase a pathetic excuse for lunch from the vending machine between three hour classes.

You can see where the image of a bunch of men in multi-thousand dollar suits bitching about how many millions they're going to respectively take home is somewhat irritating.

Everyone knows that professional athletes are some of the most overpaid men in America. Everyone, it seems, but the athletes themselves.

I understand that it's important for guys that are having their brains bashed in by 400-pound lineman to have enough in the bank for the post-retirement no-guaranteed-health-insurance days. I get it. But come on. Come on. Seriously? And don't even get me started on the owners. Are they aware of how many Americans struggle every day to provide for basic needs? Like, you know, vending machine money.


Chad Ochocinco

For some reason (that I question everyday) I follow Ochocinco on Twitter. Today, he blew up my newsfeed with complaints and conspiracy theories about how the owners had been planning this "forEVER!". Jesus H. Christ, here we go. I don't know if I can take an entire offseason of players assaulting my social media with whiney posts about how mistreated they are.

Guys, you get to play football for a living, be adored by millions of people, and make ridiculously obscene amounts of money. Your life is not that bad.


So, there you have it. Three really obnoxious reasons that the CBA negotiations are obnoxious. Time for everyone to put on their big boy britches, take a step back from the situation, and realize they're all idiots.

Ben Roethlisberger: I just...I can't.

I tried not to watch the Super Bowl. Really, I did. A team I detest playing a team led by a rapist. I didn't think I could stomach it. In fact, I made plans to spend the day at the movies instead. I bragged to everyone for weeks before about how I wasn't going to watch it. My father accused me of being a terrorist.

But, alas, along came Sunday. I spent the vast majority of the day on the couch with my boyfriend watching Law and Order SVU on Netflix. This, sadly, is not abnormal. Five o'clock rolled around. I took a deep breath, peeled my butt off of the couch and changed the channel to Fox. I swore it was just to watch Lea Michele sing America the Beautiful (admitted Gleek).

Then I started listening to the pre-game show. Announcers started talking about how, if the Steelers won, it would really be a great chance for a "Roethlisberger redemption".

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

I could have hurled something at the television. I've spent the hours since then racking my brain, trying to find some grain of logic that would explain how a Super Bowl victory for him would in anyway excuse the fact that he raped a girl.

Now, Steelers' fans and otherwise, don't come at me with the whole "it was never proven" "he was never charged" ridiculousness. Amazing how videotapes and evidence miraculously get lost at a police station, preventing charges from being pressed, isn't it? Trying to explain how blatantly ridiculous it is for anyone to even doubt the allegations is frankly beating a dead horse at this point. It's also not the focus of this post.

The point here: any of Roethlisberger's performances on the football field, victorious or otherwise, have absolutely no bearing on the prior behaviors.

Let's say the Steelers had come up on top last night: winning a Super Bowl does not equate not raping someone. And, as Big Ben would have been interviewed and explained future travel plans to Disney World, what kind of moronic sports commentator thinks that this would making a young girl in Georgia feel any better about what happened to her that night? As if she would sit there post-game and think, "Well, at least the man that raped me is a Super Bowl winner. That makes me feel much better."

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

Now, maybe I've just been watching a little bit too much SVU on the weekends (I probably wouldn't argue that myself), but I'm pretty sure that's not the way rape victims think.

Ben, do you want to redeem yourself for your actions? Call me up. We'll organize a press conference where you admit that you are, indeed, a rapist, the scum of the planet, and a liar. You'll admit that you paid off that girl and everyone involved in the situation. Then, you'll turn yourself in to authorities and serve your prison time like every other convicted felon.

I'll be sitting by the phone.

Packers' Fans: UK Fans of the North

Where I grew up, the community was bitterly divided. Not by race or socioeconomic status - it's hard to be divided by statistics that are relatively uniform across the board - but by team allegiance. You were either a University of Louisville fan, or the lesser: a University of Kentucky fan.

You see where my loyalties lie...and the slant this post will be leaning towards.

Louisville fans were far and away the classier of the two. The stereotype, in my household, was that Louisville fans were more upper crust. We had more money (not that we, personally, had tons of money), we dressed better, were more educated and eloquent. Most importantly, Louisville fans could take a loss with pride. We stuck by our team no matter what, and didn't make excuses when we weren't the victorious team. Instead, we accepted our mistakes and stuck by our guys.

Kentucky fans, on the other hand, embodied the stereotype of the dumb redneck. Kentucky fans were hillbillies. Country bumpkins. Trailer trash. If they weren't born and raised Kentucky fans, they became one as soon as the team started winning. A Kentucky team with a winning record was the bandwagon everyone jumped on. Lifelong fans talked with a twang and were rowdy and obnoxious. That was the key term: obnoxious. Kentucky fans were the type that constantly blamed the referees or the other team. It was never their precious team that ever did wrong. They constantly made excuses. They were lower class.

Obviously, all of this is ridiculous to some degree. Prejudices that go that deep that are based on which college team you cheer for are ill-founded and ignorant. There are Kentucky fans that are millionaires (Ashley Judd) and Louisville fans that constantly make excuses for a loss. It's silly and, in some cases, actually awful to put those stereotypes on anyone.

That being said, when I moved to Chicago I pledged further sports allegiances. I became a Bears fan. I also met numerous, numerous Packers fans.

I remember texting my sister one Sunday during the football season, "Oh. My. God. Packers fans. They're the Kentucky fans of the North."

The only adjective that really accurately describes it is obnoxious.

If I have one more Packers fan explain to me how Packers' fans are the only TRUE fans because they "own part of the team", I'm going to get physically violent. I do not give a rodent's rear end who owns a team. I do not care that you are so very dedicated that you wasted money buying into it. That just means you're an idiot. I would have taken the money, bought a few jerseys, and spent the leftovers on a mani/pedi and a six pack for the game.

When I think of Packers fans, I revert to the following stereotype: overweight men and women snowed in their houses with bad hair cuts and horrible, horrible accents. Generally unattractive. Generally naive. That men belong to the union and the women raise a household of boys. For some reason, the women have high pitched voices and make a lot of casseroles. I envision cartoons, almost. And the overuse of the word "crap" (pronounced "cray-up").

But, again, stereotypes. Bad. Bad, bad, bad. Bad. Hurry, someone come give me a slap on the wrist. You'll find me holding my nose and bragging about my Super Bowl win- doing my best impression of a Packers' fan.