My Dad and I watching the Dolphins spank the Panthers in Charlotte. That was a good day. And one of the best birthday presents I ever bought him… Definitely the only one that he remembers.
The hateful anarchist in me loathes the fact that the NFL lockout is ending.
There. I said it.
I’ll admit it. What? What are you going to do about it? Think you can take me on, punk?
Yes, I have friends and family who work directly with NFL. Yes, I care about the economies of cities like Charlotte. Yes, I do want to ensure that my old friend, Armanti Edwards has a job. And yes, I’m glad my father has another opportunity to hope and believe in those Dolphins. However masochistic that hope might be.
But I would be lying if I didn’t say a tiny sliver of evil within my soul is slightly disappointed.
And I’m treating you, Soxies, as my confessional. Because you won’t tell my father. And he doesn’t read the internet.
See, without football, perhaps people would appreciate understated American gems. Gems like HOCKEY. Just think. Without Tom Brady wrestling against the Ronnie Browns of this world, how much time would we have to prepare and appreciate hockey and baseball? And the news stories that would come out of a lockdown. I’ll admit it. I selfishly want to see a press conference with a teary-eyed Tom Brady talking about how he’ll just have to move on. Oh, what to do with only bazillions of dollars instead of bazillions and bazillions of dollars! How will they all survive? Oh how?!
And how cool would it be to have a rebel crew come forward. Of mismatched and older football players with a dream. Scrambling together to do the impossible. Bring a nation hope again with turf wrestling. It would be like a movie. Is that a movie? I don’t know. It should be a movie. I’ll be in it. I could be the linebacker. See, I was a linebacker in high school powderpuff. I got slapped in the face. True story.
AND without football, people will be forced to talk to each other at Thanksgiving. Just think! Real conversations. With real adults. About things like the weather. And life. And dreams and goals and stuff. Maybe without football, some people in my Dolphins-obsessed-clan would actually have dreams and goals and stuff. And time. Glorious time!
Please don’t read this, Aunt Sally. I love you.
Experts, experts here, experts everywhere, really, have never been worried. Our sports director hasn’t taken this lockout talk seriously from the get-go (what does get-go mean, anyway?). I have been cautiously indifferent.
But now that it’s come to fruition, this complete and utter lack of revolution, it’s kind of boring, right? I mean, the same thing is going to happen this fall that happens every fall. The same pig skin smell. The same, the same, the same.
I tried football. And, undoubtedly, I’ll try it again. I will. I lived in Charlotte. And I tried so, so, so hard to like the Panthers. But they kept losing! I have never seen them win a game. And I was so bandwagony. I mean, I grew up with the Dolphins. I felt like I was… cheating? Using my new location as a convenient excuse. It felt… wrong. And seriously, I’m like the Panthers’ kiss of death. Even that season when they were good? Every time I watched a game: They lost. My friends in Charlotte stopped inviting me to games. Really.
And Jake Delhomme is such a nice guy. I met him a few times through my job and he is so nice. So, when people start talking about how terrible he is, when he gets ousted, I kind of get depressed, thinking about how this nice guy has no job. I’m not supposed to feel that way. I’m supposed to be okay with it. Like how okay I would be if John Lackey were deported to Anaheim. But, it was different, see. I think it’s because… um… I like the players as people more than I like football? Yuck! What’s wrong with me?????
And the team of my people, the Dolphins. I’ve been trying for 27 years. I like going to games. But I get confused. And football people do NOT like answering questions. Especially when they know you’ve been watching for 27 years and should know what a red zone is. It gets confusing, Nick! It gets confusing! And it’s hard to pay attention when there are so many neat coffee table books at Grandma’s house!!!!
When ASU beat Michigan and I worked in radio, I got a crash course. I was forced to blog about it, all through another National Championship. I produced specials. I was on the radio talking about football. Yes. I was. Someone actually paid me money to do that. I was told I was hilarious. But I was under the impression I was being factual. Apparently my “appearance of naivete is hilarious” and it’s just so witty how I “dumb it down.” Your face is dumbed down. Apparently I was good at it. The hilarious thing. See, but I was not trying to be hilarious. Not. At. All.
Anyway, once again, I’ll try to keep up. I’ll try to be part of the football club. And I will fail. Ohsoohso miserably. And, since I have this sportserrific blog, the failure will likely be public.
That’s what kills me, really. I try. I try soooooooooo hard to like football. Because I like sports. I love sports. I love the idea of watching football. I try and I try and I try and I try. And I fail. Every. Single. Time.
But, yay, Armanti. I’m glad you have a job. I hope you are better at it this year. I’m not sure why you weren’t good at it last year. I thought you ran remarkably well. Just like I told you in that e-mail. I thought you looked like a superstar.
And Anthony, I’m glad you still have a job in marketing. I don’t want you to be homeless and living on my couch.
And Dad, I’m glad that the Miami Dolphins have… um… a chance. They have a chance, right?
And Sally, I’m glad you will be able to utilize those tickets. And I know I always say I will come down and go to a game with you. And I know I always don’t because when I do come down there’s that beach. And the Keys. And the beach naps. But I will. Maybe. This year.
And America, I’m glad that your favorite sport isn’t in dire straights (<- that’s a band!).
And football, I will try to understand you better.
But I’m sorry, America. I will never, ever, ever accept Tom Brady’s hair. And you can’t make me. The Dolphins may confuse me. They may make up rules as they go along to try to confuse me further. But they are, and always will be my home team. And I know I’m not supposed to like you, Tom Brady.
Football is kind of funny. Because my family is divided into two factions. There’s the Miami branch. And there’s the New England branch.
Makes for some interesting dinners. Let me tell you.
Will you guys still like me if I ever get savvy enough to intellectually like the Dolphins and not just like them because I’m supposed to?
Okay, seriously, guys. If my family reads this, I will be murdered. Hey… this will be a good test of my nobody in my family reads my blog theory…
CLICK HERE. I can’t figure how to imbed it- but you’ll be glad you did.
Do what I did if country music makes you cringe. Fast forward to the 2 minute mark.
And baseball without beer? Seriously, that’s like dill pickles that aren’t kosher.
An inner tube without a river. Ahhhhh, a river. That’s how I plan to spend my weekend.
You know. If this nasty, icky only-when-I’m-not-working rain would dissipate.
But seriously. Baseball. Beer. They go together like peanut butter and jelly. Cagney and Lacy. Kevin Youkilis and yours truly. Beer is part of that baseball ritual. Pop open a cold one, get semi-comatose on the couch, and wait for the bad calls to get your riled up.
So, as we await another Fenway stomping, I ask you..
What’s your baseball must have?
My mother said a remote control. Please be more interesting than that.
PS- Another crazy list on a blog today- the 20 Biggest Douchebags? I get (but wholeheartedly disagree) why a not-fan might put Beckett and Paps on the list. They can be scary. I’m sure Josh Beckett can make a not-fan dribble with tears, what with his unapologetic bad-assery. Paps as number one? Kind of a hilarious choice. Clearly we in the not-fan ranks are shaking in our high tops over the Paps face.
But guess who else ranks? David Ortiz. What is the world coming to, people? Clearly we need more outreach education. Because the ignorant masses are creeping.
Yeah. So I turn my computer on to see the triple. Yeah. Awesome.
Fine. Just adding more vodka.
Hi, Reddick. I’m glad you’re still here. I like you better than Sutton.
These announcers suck. 0-2, top of the second. Carl Crawford. Okay. But which Carl Crawford are you? Are you the badass batter or strike boy? Hmmm…
Oh. Apparently ground-out boy.
Oh good. Yes. Let’s KEEEEEEP talking about Ortiz and Gregg. I’d much rather do that than PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT IS GOING ON ON THE FIELD. Seriously, announcers?
“It’s kind of ill advised what Michael did. It didn’t serve any purpose. It didn’t even hit them.”
I know, prick announcer guy. As soon as I figure out your real name, prick announcer guy, I will google you.
So, got a new mix for Bloody Marys. It is supposed to be “extra spicy.” It tastes like a tomato died in sugar and splatted in a microwave. Good thing I have my own horse radish and… wait for it… blue cheese stuffed olives!
I love you, Pedroia. I love you, I love you, I love you. That’s right, number 18. Eat it, sucka. Gregg, I hope you saw that from home. Or the showers. Or wherever they keep you in your shame. Pedroia and his anti-base-stealing-badassishness (am I supposed to call him a muddy chicken now? why?) save the day.
HOMERUN FOR SALTY! 2-1. And it was a pretty one, too.
Top of the THIRD. JD Drew is up. I would LOVE to see a homer out of JD. LOVE. LOVE. We all know I’m a Drew apologist. I’d really like a power bat to back up my loyalty.
The “Let’s go Red Sox” guy is a lot louder than the Baltimoreans.
YESSSSSNOOOOOOOOOOOO. I really thought Drew’s ball was out of there. Caught. Crapnuggets.
A single for Scuttttttt!
Announcers, please stop coddling the child pitcher. Bergesen is in the big leagues now. Let’s treat him like a big boy.
They are BOOING Jacoby. How can you BOO Jacoby? And he lets errrr rip. A single. Nice! Maybe if you hadn’t booed so hard Karma wouldn’t have hit you in centerfield, Os.
Oh, nice. They are replaying Pedroia’s 1:54 a.m. hit. Which is thrilling. Because at 1:54 I was in and out of a sleep coma.
Wow. Check out the bat chick. How do you get that job? I would be a greeeeaatttt bat chick. You know, because CLEARLY you don’t have to actually CATCH the ball. And I look damn hot in a ponytail.
I thought blue cheese olives would be fitting since the Orioles are so whiny. And they sure are. And only $3.59 at Ingles. I love you, Dustin Pedroia. YESSSSSSSSSS Base hit. LOVE it. Game is tied. That was one of those stand up on the couch, scare the crap out of your dog moments. Replay! Replay!
Oh. Of course. You’ll replay Ortiz-Gregg crap all day long. But we mustn’t show a kick ass hit again. Ohno. Hi, Gonz.
YESSSSSS. 3-2. 78th rbi for the GONZ.
Uhoh. I think I hear whining…
Bottom of the third. 3-2. It’s like losing, but the opposite. I’m sure we’ll hear alllllll about that later from Bucky Boy. Think Gregg is watching? Of course he’s watching. Think the tears are rolling down his cheeks, or just welling in the ducts?
YESSSS. Double play. Thanks to the Youkie-poo.
And… it’s phone shot time. I kind of have the best family in the world.
And I least I can PROVE my phone shots. Seriously, kids, without photographic evidence, how am I supposed to think you just downed it?
See how not lying I am?
Did anyone ever figure out what John Lackey did Saturday? Because I am curious.
Does anyone read this? Because I get loads of comments on live-blog posts. But they’re always when I’m not live.
Hi, Carl Crawford, “the only member of the Red Sox to NOT HIT IN THE THIRD INNING.”
Hey, the announcer said it. I didn’t.
It’s so nice not to be working.
Oh, Maddon “let Crawford go,” announcer said, because of the Trop and its effects on Crawford’s legs. Yeah, I’m sure that’s why you didn’t get him. Had nothing to do with the moneys.
Yay! Base hit! Adequacy! You tell ’em, Crawford.
Alright Salty. Let’s teach the O’s to spell your name!
Lester “is ready to go Monday.” Sweet.
Comeon, announcers. Let’s talk some salt. That’s Saltalamacchia.
“It may be last man standing… or, it could be Tampa Bay coming in around the corner…”
What corner, announcer? Seriously. Because the only corner they’re coming around is a coffin. Or time out. That’s less dramatic.
YESSSSSSSSS Sweet. I love it when they dive for it and smack into the turf. Two players. No catch. Thanks for making us look swell. But, got to warn you, PIE, get ready to hear some whining in the dugout. Bucky’s not going to let you get away with an error without a trip to the corner. The time out corner. Not the coffin corner. Hi, Drew.
“That tells you how he’s seeing the ball.”
Shove it, announcer.
It’s okay. Scut’s taking point.
I don’t think they’ve decided how to pronounce Bergesen’s name. I’m hearing Berg-a-son. And Burgggg<-soft g-esson. Decide, please.
YESSSSSS Crawford, comes around to score… what was that? Was it out? Was it safe? Replay it, damnit. It looks safe. It looks fricking SAFE. Is it? You suck, announcers.
“That’s the first one, error-wise, the Orioles have committed in seven games.”
Well, announcer, they are too busy whining to commit errors. Oh, and to win.
SAFFFEEEE. You’ve got guts, Scut.
Loverly. Like in the song from “My Fair Lady.” The musical based on another play called Pygmalion.
5-2 Sox. Sorry, Gregg. You should bottle your tears. You know. To water plants. We’ve all got to do our part to save water. I wrote this article about it today. Want me to send it to you? Should I just address it c/o Time Out?
Okay. Two people have invited me to be on Google plus. What. Is. It.????
HOMERUNREDDICK. Yay. 6-2. Are you watching this, Bucky?
Are you seeing these announcers and their ties? Seriously. Is that a Valentine’s Day tie?
Felix Pie. Peee-aaayyyy. Sure. Okay. PIE.
“So long as the knuckle ball is working he can pitch from now to 75,” announcer GARY says.
Seriously? You let Pie get on first? That’s ridiculous. Did you see that? Wild pitch, he hail Marys it to first… now they’re saying it’s on Salty?
There’s a sign that says Hankook or something…? But just now, Andino is blocking part of it, and it just says Kook. Hah.
“It’s the invisible baseball. It sort of just darts away.”
Hardy gets a homer. 6-4.
“The problem with a knuckler is when it doesn’t knuckle, it rolls,” ~Announcer.
Okay, Wake. Baby. Let’s focus. Okay? Focus. Tito, you watch him, k?
I am about thirty seconds from muting these damn announcers. 6-4. Bottom of the 5th.
I want to be a baseball announcer. Seriously. I would rock at your life, announcer guy.
DAMNIT. Okay. 6-5. Homerun.
Alright. I love you, Wake. Really. I do. But it’s time for a rest, k? Tito, don’t you think it’s time for a rest?
“You can just watch Wakefield put his head down.”
But seriously, Tito. I think it’s time for a powwow. Come on, Curt Young. I can’t do this for you guys. Believe me, I want to.
STOP SAYING ONE RUN BALLGAME, ANNOUNCER JACKASS. We get it.
“Keep in mind, the Red Sox had that 16 inning ball game last night.”
Wake looks sad.
Okay. Now I look sad.
This game is making me SOOOOO glad I have blue cheese olives. You don’t even know.
Yeah. Hi, Curt Young. Let’s do this. Wheeler’s warm. Let’s. Do. This.
Oh. Okay. Or we could just leave Wake in. Sure. Okay.
This is me trusting you, CURT YOUNG.
Please. That so did not almost hit you.
BASES LOADED????? Seriously????
What. The. Frick.
SOMEBODY? Can anybody fricking hear me??????
Kristin, why is this happening to us?
DAMNNNNNIIITTTTT! 7-6. This is YOUR FAULT, Curt Young. YOUR FAULT.
Okay. I am using this commercial break to breathe. And calm my puppy down. Who ran upstairs and is probably in the bathtub.
Seriously. Why? I need an answer. With words. In paragraph form. Stat. Go.
FDA, is this because of that time I called John Lackey a water bug larva? Are we being punished? I know I look 12. I’m told that on occasion. It makes being a reporter super fun, let me tell you.
Oh God. Maybe the whining works.
I would rather lose to the Stankees.
Come on, Wheeler. Come ON. 7-6 O’s, bottom of the fifth. TWO outs. Runners on second and third. This would be a gooooood time for an out. Thank you. Thank you, Dan Wheeler. I am naming my tomato plant Dan Wheeler in your honor, good sir. The beefeaters. Not the heirlooms.
So, I was really excited to find the new Morningstar “spicy” breakfast sausage on special… but it is not spicy. It is full of lies.
“Both bothered by a lack of defense behind them.”
Anddddd… MUTE. 8:47.
“Lackey’s the big question mark.”
SHUT UP. Yeah. So I lied about the mute. I was going to. I swear. I just. Um. Didn’t.
Jacoby Ellsbury is pretty.
Don’t tell K-Youk.
I see wayyyy more Sox fans than Orioles fans. Oh. And some pinstripes. Why are you in Baltimore?
Come on, Scut. Please hit the ball. In a scoring way. Not in a pop out way.
Swinging would help.
What did I say about popping out?????
I can’t watch this.
Yes I can.
Hi, Dan Wheeler. Did you always have that much facial hair?
Okay. Moved computer to bedroom. Maybe I’ll sleep through the rest.
We’re fine. One run. And we’re on base. Thanks to kickass Jacoby. And Pedroia’s up. And there are no outs. All-in-all, it’s a good place to be. You know. If you’re the Sox.
I really hate these announcers. Top of the seventh.
Three balls. One strike. And one kickass Pedroia. Crap. Crap. Oh, thank you screen. Thought we were going to have a caught foul ball and a cranky me. And he walks.
Two on. And Gonz AND Youk coming up. We’re just fine. Just fine…
Gonz. He’s one for three.
Tampa Bay is leading the Yankees! Sweet.
Even though, honestly, I kind of wanted the Stanks to win so Joe Maddon could cry in his car.
It is amazing how many teams have been pissing me off that aren’t the Yankees.
Two balls. Two strikes. Gonzzzzz.
Okay. That was no strike. That’s a super questionable out.
YESSSSS. Youkie. Hits. Jacoby. Scores.
Delightful boos rise up in Baltimore. Like Showalter, like fans…
7-7. In the 7th. ONE OUT
Oh, now they call. Friends call at 9:16 trying to get me to go to the bar. Maybe you should have called two hours ago.
An out. And Crawford comes. Up. 13 for 86 against lefties. Got to hit them sometime, though, right?
Pedroia and Reddick on base.
Would be an excellent time for a slam.
Ohno. I have not been paying close enough attention. Michael Gonzalez is pitching? Really???? Out. Whatever. “Crawford didn’t like the call.” I didn’t either, dear.
Seriously, that call was crap. Blue shirt announcer is totally trying to hide his lame Valentine’s Day tie with his microphone.
Oh. It does. It has hearts on it. No. Just… no.
Michael Gonzalez really shouldn’t be in this game.
Just saying. Guess his appeal wasn’t worked through today.
Still 7-7. It is 9:21. And I really might pass out. That’s sad.
Five relievers used yesterday. FIVE. That is insane.
“Breath Lauren and play the drinking game. Every time anyone speaks Take a drink.” FDA gives the best advice.
Don’t mind if I do.
Being a Red Sox fan can be a lot like being a Charter customer. You can’t help it and it hurts.
Oh, Reynolds. That almost-homerun-actual-foul just made me terrify the dog again.
Okay. I’m not going to argue. Really. But there’s something fishy going on in ump world tonight… 9:32. Still a tie.
Ohno. Please don’t let this game have 16 innings. Please?
8th. 8th innings are great times for rallies. You can rally a tie. You can.
Michael Gonzalez is treating the mound like a slip ‘n slide. And I am having a lot of trouble keeping my eyes open. Seriously. If I pass out, you have to finish my play-by-play, FDA.
DO SOMETHING, MCDONALD. ANYTHING. Thank you. And he walks.
I’m glad you helped an old lady, FDA. Because I accidentally shut the door on one. It was an accident….
Just add more vodka!
That does the opposite of wake me up.
Seriously. Michael Gonzalez should be in Gregg’s circle of pout right now. They should be weaving friendship bracelets and swapping handkerchiefs. Is Showalter crying? Do his eyes look puffy to you? Another walk would be nice. Still top of the fricking eighth. Scuttttttt.
Yay. Hit. Yay. First and Second. Yes. Tired. But first and second. One out. We will score. Because of FDA’s old lady. And because of God. Anddd stuff. Tired. Jacoby is up. He is o for four against M-Gonz. But that was before the whiny week. Surely he has been inspired by the whining. oh, the incessant whining. So tired. Faddding. Fading fast… oh the typos I have to fix before I click “update.”
11 to 7. Yay. Youkilis.
Yeah. We won. And I fell asleep and missed it…
They want to coat our nation in syrup and feed us to a moose herd. Really. I heard it from Michael J. Fox.
Tonight, the United States, whether we are baseball fans or hockey fans, stand together.
Tonight, we fight Canada!
Cue the Pledge of Allegiance!
Seriously. Why isn’t your hand over your heart? Do you hate America?
Because JoJo Reyes does!
Do it for the troops, Boston!
Those wiley syrup makers are trying to take over, eh! They’ll bring their moose (the size of pickup trucks, I tell you!) and their hats and their bacon and their gravy fries. They’ll put wigs on our lawyers and Nickelback on our radios! Do you like Nickelback? Well, do you, punk?
Tonight… WE FIGHT!
(The author would like to point out that this is in no way representative of how she feels about Canada, a place she’s spent lots of time in, or, more specifically, Vancouver, her dream city, a place where, while she hopes their hockey team loses -and loses violently-, she hopes to retire in someday so she can watch the killer whales from her yacht -she will have a yacht- . She can prove it. She does speak French, after all, and has spent time utilizing this skill in Quebec. She just really, really, really hates your sports teams, Canada. Like, a lot. And she doesn’t actually like Ann Coulter. She is actually terrified of Ann Coulter and thinks she is the praying mantis of America.)
PS- Did you read this? Looks like our Bruins are getting the no-no from management about their apparel…
Gotta disagree with management on this one.