I know there is no NBA. And in a bizarre negotiating tactic, many players are threatening to play in Europe. That sound you just heard is 6.5 billion people not caring. No word on any negotiations or talk of negotiations. If there is a protracted work stoppage, hopefully, Patrick Ewing’s kids are fed this time around.

I have actually been paying attention to my beloved Indians. They are making a slow, slow fade into obscurity. Their high-powered offense having put up a staggering 4 runs in the last 4 games. That is truly anemic. And they just made a trade to help them out, by bringing in a starting pitcher. Wait! 4 in the 9th FTW! I did not intend my post to be a live blog of the Indians game, but there you have it.

That’s it though. No other sports for me. Wait – weeding – is that a sport? The burning hot rage of a mouse infestation? No? Power washing? It’s kind of athletic. I almost fell off the top of our sun porch. That’s funny more than a sport. Oh well. That’s it for now. Soon enough I can bore you with sports talk, but for now it’s back to digging bushes out of my front yard.

I couldn’t do it by myself against that team. I apologize for the way it happened, but I knew this opportunity was once in a lifetime.

LeBron was light on the specifics. I venture what LeBron meant to say was he was sorry it wasn’t easy. He’s sorry that he had to work for it. That he needed to get better at mid-range jumpers. That his defense had to improve. That he had to pass to guys who could potentially miss. He’s sorry that he never tried to bring anyone to the team. That he refused to commit to the franchise for more than a
few years at time thereby putting them in perpetual “win now” mode and crippling any chance at long-term stability. He’s sorry the
team gave him everything he ever asked for and, in retrospect, coddled him far too much. He’s sorry he’s immature. He’s only
25 after all.

Most of all, he’s sorry the world wants him to earn it. His birthright may have been an incredible ability to play basketball, but a ring is promised to no man. I think LeBron half-expected David Stern to hand him the Larry O’Brien trophy on draft night. “Oh, need to play some games first?” He’s sorry that even such massive talent, such blinding speed and awesome raw power couldn’t show up, throw down a few dunks and walk away with a championship every year.

Ken Levine / Getty Images

There’s an iconic photo of Michael Jordan hugging his first championship trophy, openly weeping, indubitably reflecting on all the hard work he’d done over his then 7-year career and the preceding decades. He probably thought about the back-breaking work of building a team from nothing to the ultimate winner. The countless hours spent toiling through the playoffs with less than ideal teammates. In the end, there was no doubt he alone was the consummate champion – a singular winner.

So, LeBron is sorry. Well, I’m sorry too. I’m sorry that should LeBron shed his own tears in the coming weeks they won’t mean quite the same thing.

You would think such ignorance would liberate me in making my picks, but alas, it has not been so. Instead I recall every prejudice I’ve ever had about any college basketball program ever and apply it to this year’s tourney despite its obvious insignficance.

“Duke, not with that pasty Danny Ferry!”

“Michigan with those long shorts!”

“Notre Dame? Oh, the pope would like that now wouldn’t he?”

Instead of polishing up my bracket in 10 minutes, I’d spend 3 to 5 work hours reading

Brackets even I can understand. I take the one on the far right.

synopses of all the teams and constructing a wonderful fantasy land in which 3 lines of text improve my
chances of success in some statistically significant way.

But the last few years I got smart and constructed a more “effective” strategy. I decided to always pick a team that is “unpopular” (i.e. not very good) with the expectation that if they win it, I’m guaranteed to be in the money, despite getting 4 to 8 correct picks in the first round.

Brilliant, right? I could have taken the “smart” pick, Ohio State. But I live IN Ohio. You know how many Nuts there are around here? Bunch-a-million (as my friend once replied when pondering how many records the Beatles had sold). Picking them would have required me to actually know something other than that Ohio State was good. Duke? Don’t they win like every year? These choices are far too obvious! One must think outside the tiny 3/4s boxes.

And man, am I looking like a genius right now. There are upsets all OVER the place. Butler’s making another unlikely run. AND something called “VICU” (do you spell the letters or try to say it as a word?? I mean, who are those guys?) is also in the Great 8. This looks like the perfect year to have applied my airtight strategy and come out like a bandit. Seriously, that Pitt pick is looking so sweet right about now.

Photo

12/2 – Cavs lose to some asshole: “OK. I’ve heard trying helps, but going with a different strategy. I’m with ya.”

12/17 – Cavs lose 10 straight to drop to 7-19: “Youch. But run off a 12-game win streak, we’re right back in it.”

12/18 – Cavs beat Knicks: “That 8th win is always the toughest. Especially when it takes like 3 months to get it.”

Losing makes Christian Eyenga sleepy.

1/11 – Cavs lose to Lakers by an order of magnitude: “There is not enough beer in creation to endure this.”

12/20/10 through 02/09/11 – Cavs end up constructing Generals-esque losing streak dropping 26! in a row: “Fuck a duck.”

If you’re mathing at home, the Cavs went 1 and 36 over a 37-game span.

2/11 – Through sheer willpower and consumption of potato moonshine I lead the Cavs to their 9th victory when they beat the Clippers last Friday: “One day I will tell my grandchildren about the crappiest team I was ever a fan of winning that game that one time that I was at.”

2/16 – After laying an egg against the Wizards 3 nights before, Cavs inexplicably beat the Lakers: “I am going to stay up past 2 am writing a post about these magnificent bastards getting 10 wins in 56 games.”

Hey sometimes it takes you three games to win two and sometimes it takes 38. And it sounds like someone is feeling a little jealous.

Go Cavs!

Photo

Becoming a Steelers Fan. (pbs.org)

Why? Well, because the Pittsburgh Steelers are in the Super Bowl. And my name is Roger and I am a Steelers fan living in Cleveland. It helps to admit when you have a problem.

How does one become a Steelers fan in Cleveland ? One Pennsylvanian-native parent and a childhood of brainwashing usually do the trick. In any picture of me under the age of 12, there’s about a 78% chance I’m wearing a Steelers t-shirt. Don’t get me wrong, I look good, but with that attire there was probably also a 78% chance of having a brick thrown at me.  Like a lot of things in sports there are plenty of people who take this rivalry a wee bit too seriously.

Why is coach wearing a helmet?

It’s not easy though. I love my city and being a fan of her most-hated (and very successful) rival is a touchy issue.  Whenever I’m around a friend who doesn’t yet know I’m a Steelers fan, there inevitably comes a moment when they will say something like, “Man, can you believe how much bronzer Mangini is wearing this year?”  That’s when I have to come clean.  “You know, I’m actually a Steelers fan.”

You ever kicked a puppy?  They just get this look on their face like, “Why did this happen?  Why did you do that to me?”  And before the red-hot burn of anger comes to their face, I first see them flash me the “kicked puppy.”  After explaining my dad is from Pennsylvania and a Steelers fan, I usually get a begrudged grunt of acceptance – not as a human being, just acceptance that my reasons for rooting for a hated enemy are somewhat legitimate.

So tomorrow as the Steelers try for their seventh Super Bowl title, I will sit in my chair at my own Super Bowl party knowing that my dad and I are the only ones in the house rooting for a Steelers win.  It’s a special bond we share.

And when we (hopefully) hear the groans of disappointment at another Steelers victory, I’ll look over to my dad and say, “Thanks for not forcing me into being a fan of the Pirates.”

“You should love your team unconditionally man!  You should spend your precious little free time watching them continually shit the bed against actual NBA teams!”

Then, the Cavs lost to the Lakers by a bunch-a-million points.  Holy hell’s bells in a hand-made Longaberger handbasket.  Fortunately, I was at a bar for most of the game where I was unfortunately unable to drink enough to blur my vision sufficiently as I had to drive home, though I suspect any buzz gained would have been killed.

Christian Eyenga. Allegedly 21. (NBA.com)

Even though it’s difficult to recognize most of these dudes in their NBA game jerseys, have a look anyway.  Most of those you might know are injured, coming off an injury or playing like the titular Bernie during his infamous weekend.

Interesting list, eh?  You might be wondering, who is Samardo Samuels?  I have no fucking idea, but I’m reasonably certain he’s one of the top 10 players from Trelawny, Jamaica.  Is Gee good?  Not at the moment, but who can forget his utter domination of his nephew Jimmy at the Gee Thanksgiving 2-on-2 tournament?  Gee’s sister was rightfully PISSED.  Christian Eyenga?  He’s a 21-year old African dude who looks 45.

Ok, so it’s not exactly a murderer’s row of basketball unless said murdering is of the hopes and dreams of Cavalier fans for the next decade or five.  But still, I suspect even this sorry group of should-be NBDL players could have mustered a smaller deficit than 55 points.  I fuss, but why?  Is 49 all that much different than 55? Ok, yes, it’s 6 different.

So, I find myself struggling more and more to watch the Cavs.  And it’s made me more understanding.  Next time, instead of being out in the snow and -30 wind chill and shaking my fist at those indoors, I’m going to march right in and crack open a beer with that wise and warm fair-weather fan.

This was the end of the post, but then, there’s this. Uh, karma?  I will leave you with the words of the great Inigo Montoya, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Ok, I kid.  Well, not really.  We did have a game last night and we did lose but so did our (growly announcer voice)CLEVELAND CAVALIERS!( /growly announcer voice)  For the first time, the Cavs were facing longtime “savior” and now prodigal son, so-and-so.

Now, since I was playing hockey I didn’t see the whole game, but I did catch the beginning.  And evidently I stopped watching at exactly the right time.  When I stopped watching, the Cavs were winning, that mindless twit was playing passively and Drew Carey was looking skinny and kind of creepy actually.  After that, festering puss bucket played really well.  I would have expected as much, but I hoped maybe he’d be injured somehow and unable to perform.  Did he take any shots left-handed?  No?  Did he complain that Heat fans took him for granted?  No?  Did he note the irony that “Heat fan” is oxymoronic?  No!  Tell me that he at least looked syphilitic?  Yes?!  Please tell me yes!  This is all I need out of life.

Turns out that that insolent cad is pretty good at basketball.  We all knew and that was never the point.  In the seven years I watched him play, I probably only saw him play a handful of truly bad games.  I expected that he’d play well.  And he did.  I didn’t have to see the game to know the ease with which he dominated is the perfect indictment against his performance against the Celtics in last year’s playoffs.  I know back then he was concentrating on faking an elbow injury, but he’s a gifted charlatan and even when distracted he can put 25-5-5 on you.

Oh well.  I wanted to be mad, but I’m haven’t been able to sustain the anger all these months.  Once you realize somebody quit on you, there’s no sense in being upset.  There’s no running down the street after them or standing outside their house, boom box raised overhead.  Maybe I’m wistful for the old timey 2008 team, but overall, it’s meh.  Not to say it didn’t sting, seeing him in an opponent’s uniform.  Yesterday it was like your ex-wife showing up at your house in her shiny new Ferrari with her handsome (basketball skills-wise) new boyfriend (Dwyade) and their lovable pet t-rex (Chirs Bosh).

So it goes in Cleveland .  All we can hope for now is an angry Dan Gilbert response letter.

Where's Randy? He's in there. Look! Please? It took me way too long to place him in there. It'd really mean a lot to me. I'll even give you a hint: he's next to Waldo.

Randy is like having a crazy girlfriend, except you’re married.  He is the Glenn Close of fantasy football players.  One day he’s scoring touchdowns for you via the Patriots and the next thing you know – rabbit stew!  Normally, I am a very practical guy and I try to avoid all the drama of owning a guy like Randy Moss.  I take the high road and don’t draft guys like that.  But then I realize most leagues demand/suggest you start a receiver or three.

Let’s be honest, as a group, we’re not talking about rocks of stability.  In fact, outside of the Colts’ receivers (who apparently are reigned in by Peyton Manning’s strong pimp hand, although Marvin may have went a little wayward.  It’s always the same story right?  “Nice guy, kept to himself.  Great with the kids in the neighborhood.  Maybe a little overprotective of his carwash, etc.”) and Andre Johnson the average NFL receiver is a little too wild for the Bad Girls Club and if you’ve seen The Soup you know those bitches be crazy!

It seems Randy has landed himself in Tennessee (two n’s, two s’s, four e’s Randy, but not all right next to each other).  I was pushing for Cincinnati this time around, but hey, the season’s young.  What would that show be called?  Probably, “What the Fuck Are the Bengals Doing Now?”

At any rate, dang.  It’s Tennessee’s bye week.  Great.  Looks like Roy’s getting the start.  Or maybe I can pick-up a homeless guy on waivers.  Thanks for nothing, Randy — nothing but headaches and rack of rabbit.

Brett Favre has a unique ability to annoy the shit out of people who don’t even care.  He has to be the most needy “man of a certain age” in professional football.  I just hope when he sent around those pictures of Brett Bretterson that he was

Brett Bretterson in happier times.

wearing his Wranglers.  You don’t want to sexually harass AND piss off your jean company.

• Congratulations to the New York Yankees on losing in the ALCS!  Nothing is more pleasing to like 95 percent of all baseball fans than when you fail miserably.  Now go console yourselves with your millions and millions of dollars.
• NBA season is upon us.  I still don’t think I’m emotionally ready to see LeBron clang 3-pointers off the rim all day in a Miami Heat uniform whilst fellating Dwyane Wade.

• In other news, I am soon to play co-ed touch football.  Our opponents are undefeated.  So, yah, let’s all go out there and have some fun!

October Golf - Feel the Heat!

I am only half joking.  I live in Cleveland and the weather here is no day at the beach, even when you’re spending the day at the beach.  But whenever I see golf in England I have to take a minute to appreciate how completely miserable it looks.  40 degrees, driving rain and gale-force winds?  Where are my sticks?

Golf was not meant for October.  They invented the game, you would think they know this by now.

One sport meant for October is co-ed (double) touch football.  Wave of Mutilation gears up for a 10 am game tomorrow morning.  Yes 10 am.  Now, 10 years ago, this was a dicey proposition for my team.  We were all in our young to mid-twenties, we were out getting drunk the night before and maybe someone would puke on the sideline (and maybe that happened last year, who’s to say?).  But now, we are old and we have kids.  I was up til 12:30 last night and was probably the only one to miss curfew.  This might seem like a downer, but it often turns into an advantage when our less teetotaling opponents show up groggy to the field.

As life changes you have different problems to solve out on the field like how do we run a three-deep zone while keeping all the kids off the field?  And, we might have to leave the game if Lincoln’s nap doesn’t last through the half.  And the lessons are different as well.  I promise to be understanding when my boy drops a wide open two-point conversion.  But the ball hit my hat and then I couldn’t see with the hat and the clouds and sun in my eyes!

Despite the adversity (and the weather), we’ll happily be out there tomorrow.  Then maybe we’ll get a quick round of golf in – parkas and all.