Here's what I said to the wife of one of my teammates upon showing up at the gym last night: "For the first time in a long time, I'm really not looking forward to playing basketball tonight."
Our 0-6, relatively sorry excuse for a team was scheduled to take on an apparent juggernaut, the 6-0 Hickory Hoosiers. They've beaten everyone, including the teams that had beaten us by 50+. And it became apparent about an hour before tip-off that we were likely to only have six guys in our rotation; so not only were we sure to be getting our asses kicked, but it was going to happen with only one person to sub off the bench.
My entire day seemed to be an appropriate precursor to this late night massacre (9:30pm game time). I felt like shit for most of Wednesday. After about an hour of work, my recent on-again off-again symptoms of discomfort all came on at once: a bit of headache, a bit of abdominal pain and what seemed to be a bit of a fever to go along with the usual fatigue that's caused by my regular lack of sleep.
You know you're not right (at least I do) when you go to Burger King for lunch and not even that sounds good. It wasn't until 3:00pm that I finally forced myself to eat something. It didn't really do the trick then either.
Things didn't get much better after work. My wife convinced me it would be a good night to go out to eat as a family, which we rarely do. But what are the fucking odds that we'd end up at the same restaurant as my brother-in-law, the table right next to his, as he's out having a birthday dinner with his girlfriend? That insured that I was to be primarily ignored over the next 60 minutes or so. My wife was understandably more interested in talking to her brother, and his mere presence for some reason makes my kids think they don't have to listen to a fucking word their parents say. It was not a good night to be the child cop.
I also received a heavy dose of criticism (it was called 'bullshit' actually) for saying that I wasn't going to be ordering anything to eat or drink. I still wasn't feeling well, I'd just forced down a sandwich about three hours earlier, and I was going to be playing basketball a couple of hours later. It made sense. It probably saved us $20. What's the problem?
So after a couple more hours of running around with the family, it finally came time to head to the gym and take our beating.
Game 7: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers
What I failed to say in the opening when I quoted my lack of motivation just before gametime was that only one side of the gym was populated. There were our six guys and our one fan, but no one else (other than the now-infamous scorekeeper).
The referees filed in a few minutes later, but once the clock hit exactly 9:30 I heard what I never expected to hear during this basketball season: "You guys win."
The vaunted Hickory Hoosiers didn't show, giving us a rather thankless win ... but a win nonetheless. Here's my theory: These guys close the season with two straight against us, so they've already beaten everyone else. All they need to do is win one of the last two to clinch the title. My guess is that these arrogant fucks who shouldn't even be in a C league anyway decided that they didn't want to strain one of their vagina muscles during an otherwise meaningless 9:30 game.
Our six players enjoyed the friendly competition of several games of three-on-three until we were kicked out of the gym. But I'm pretty sure the assholes from Hickory will show up next week to mop the floor with our asses, then take their championship shirts and ride off on their gay ponies.
Final Score: I don't know. It might be 1-0; it might be 100-0. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I'm not sure of the forfeit rules. I only know that we win, mother fucker.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero, but only because there was no opening tip. I was clearing going to be on fire, as illustrated when I hit my first three shots in three-on-three (two 2s and a three).
Record: 1-6
Next game: July 22 vs. Hickory Hoosiers.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
St. Louis, I Have a Middle Finger for You
With all due respect to a highly-regarded friend who happens to unfortunately be from the St. Louis area, I really can't fucking stand that city.
In its defense, I honestly have never given St. Louis much of a chance. My first visit came as a pre-teen in the late 1980s. I was reasonably thrilled to pack into a little turd capsule that sent my family to the top of the Arch. I also attended my first hockey game, watching the Blues defeat the Maple Leafs. As innocuous as hockey has always been, watching that particular St. Louis team earn a victory didn't create much of a bother.
It was during that same trip that I first went to Busch Stadium. With its seemingly florescent artificial turf and cookie-cutter stadium design, this was not a good place to watch a baseball game. And that doesn't even take into account the overall disdain I have for the Cardinals themselves.
So I guess you could say my hatred for St. Louis is single-minded; it's strictly due to baseball. But, trust me, that's a good enough reason.
Rarely can it be more painful than right now, as the sports world turns its collective eye toward St. Louis for baseball's All-Star festivities. Joe Buck set the tone Saturday during his call of the Cubs-Cardinals game on Fox, declaring that "St. Louis really does baseball right" and that the All-Star Game was "sure to be a spectacle" in St. Louis.
Christ, it's about all I can take.
I'm really curious as to where this perception was born -- the idea that St. Louis is this unparalleled baseball town that has such great respect for the game and is home to the most educated fans in the country. Who the fuck determines that? These great fans are the same ones that flocked out of the ballpark in droves in 1998 simply because it appeared certain that Mark McGwire would not be coming to the plate again that day. Now that's the path of an educated and respectful fan.
Looking for the full disclosure of bias? Here it is: I'm a diehard Cubs fan. But I have no problem acknowledging that there were plenty of Cubs fans in '98 who also took early exits if they thought Sammy Sosa had already taken his last cuts of the day. I'll also say that Wrigley Field is not the best place to watch a game, and I'd hesitate to say that it's definitely the home to the best fans. What I can tell you is that there are a lot of annoying fucks in the bleachers who are more concerned about drinking beer and chasing tail than what is happening on the field. But there's something to be said for 30,000+ fans singing in unison after a Cubs victory.
I don't see anything like that in St. Louis. And I don't care what Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, Bob Costas or anyone else has to say about it. In my eyes, that sea of red in the stands at Busch Stadium is much like the burning flames of hell.
So enjoy the All-Star festivities, St. Louis. Here's to a shitty second half of the season for you.
In its defense, I honestly have never given St. Louis much of a chance. My first visit came as a pre-teen in the late 1980s. I was reasonably thrilled to pack into a little turd capsule that sent my family to the top of the Arch. I also attended my first hockey game, watching the Blues defeat the Maple Leafs. As innocuous as hockey has always been, watching that particular St. Louis team earn a victory didn't create much of a bother.
It was during that same trip that I first went to Busch Stadium. With its seemingly florescent artificial turf and cookie-cutter stadium design, this was not a good place to watch a baseball game. And that doesn't even take into account the overall disdain I have for the Cardinals themselves.
So I guess you could say my hatred for St. Louis is single-minded; it's strictly due to baseball. But, trust me, that's a good enough reason.
Rarely can it be more painful than right now, as the sports world turns its collective eye toward St. Louis for baseball's All-Star festivities. Joe Buck set the tone Saturday during his call of the Cubs-Cardinals game on Fox, declaring that "St. Louis really does baseball right" and that the All-Star Game was "sure to be a spectacle" in St. Louis.
Christ, it's about all I can take.
I'm really curious as to where this perception was born -- the idea that St. Louis is this unparalleled baseball town that has such great respect for the game and is home to the most educated fans in the country. Who the fuck determines that? These great fans are the same ones that flocked out of the ballpark in droves in 1998 simply because it appeared certain that Mark McGwire would not be coming to the plate again that day. Now that's the path of an educated and respectful fan.
Looking for the full disclosure of bias? Here it is: I'm a diehard Cubs fan. But I have no problem acknowledging that there were plenty of Cubs fans in '98 who also took early exits if they thought Sammy Sosa had already taken his last cuts of the day. I'll also say that Wrigley Field is not the best place to watch a game, and I'd hesitate to say that it's definitely the home to the best fans. What I can tell you is that there are a lot of annoying fucks in the bleachers who are more concerned about drinking beer and chasing tail than what is happening on the field. But there's something to be said for 30,000+ fans singing in unison after a Cubs victory.
I don't see anything like that in St. Louis. And I don't care what Joe Buck, Tim McCarver, Bob Costas or anyone else has to say about it. In my eyes, that sea of red in the stands at Busch Stadium is much like the burning flames of hell.
So enjoy the All-Star festivities, St. Louis. Here's to a shitty second half of the season for you.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Game 6: This Is Really a Fucking C League?
Call me stereotypical. Call me a racist. Whatever. But when my basketball team – a rag-tag roster of whiteys between the ages of 25 and 35 – is matched up against a primarily African-American team with no one appearing to be as old as 25, I know pretty quickly that we're going to be in deep shit. For Christ's sake, these guys were doing organized lay-up drills before the game. Give me a fucking break.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
By the way, one of my teammates spoke with one of theirs during the game, and apparently several of these guys played together on a local community college team. Yeah, they should be playing in a fucking C league. These are the kinds of pussies who have fragile enough egos that they can't bear to actually have to compete with teams at a similar level to theirs week in and week out. If it lets them sleep better at night, so be it. Fucking cocks.
Game 6: July 8 vs. The T-Birds
On our best day, we’d have been lucky to compete with these guys, and it was clear even before the game started that this wasn’t going to be our team’s best day. We were without our best overall player, who was out due to a broken nose/suspension/previous obligation (you can choose which reason to which it should be assigned; all should be considered valid). Our second-most experienced player and probably second-best overall player, Spencer, was also out. So the odds were stacked against us even more.
The game’s first highlight came even before the opening tip, as the league’s not-so-friendly scorekeeper approached our team with the scoresheet for us to fill out our roster for the game. On the heels of my game-ending tirade last week – some of which was directed right at her – she clearly was trying to hand off the sheet to anyone but me. Unwilling to let her off so easy, I quickly stepped in to take the captain’s role, and I watched as she uncomfortably made all efforts to avoid eye contact and any sort of interaction with me. It was a rewarding experience.
Then came the tip, and it was over fairly shortly thereafter. For what it’s worth, the Fabulous Flaming T-Birds couldn’t really shoot for shit. But it obviously didn’t matter, in large part because each of them individually seemed to be blessed with more natural athleticism than our entire team combined. They were effective driving to the basket, they got a ton of transition opportunities, and their speed and length forced a ridiculous number of turnovers from our so-called offense.
I was fortunate enough to draw the defensive assignment of someone who was probably ten years younger and about three or four inches taller than me. I don’t shy away from that kind of shit, though, and I certainly wasn’t going to let the guy have anything easy. Quickly getting frustrated by my bullish 5’6” 155-pound frame, this simple young man predictably opted for a strategy outside of the rules. Every cut to the basket, every effort to get in position for the ball, every time the ball was sent up toward the glass, the guy was doing nothing but pushing, shoving and throwing elbows. I have the bruises on both arms, my ribs and my hip to show for it. Not that I’m complaining. I’m actually quite proud to have caused it. I was obviously doing something right. And, by the way, the douche didn’t score a fucking point on me for those first 20 minutes.
Of course, plenty of his other teammates did score, and we struggled to counter with any consistent offensive output. Halftime score: 46-15.
We switched to a 2-3 zone in the second half as our strategy for slicing into that 31-point deficit, and it paid off early as we forced a turnover on the Flaming Gaybirds’ first possession. (Though it should be noted that the errant pass toward the wide-open man on the baseline probably wasn’t caused by any defensive execution.) We did actually hold our opponents to fewer points in the second half than the first, but we hardly had the offensive firepower to ever make things remotely interesting.
I did my best and actually had probably my best offensive half of season, knocking down several threes and a couple of buckets inside the arc. Each of the threes I hit was right in the eye of the same brash T-Bird. I’m not one to take many contested shots, but these guys could make up ground in a hurry … and I don’t think this guy liked the fact that a majority of the points his team had allowed were splashed right in his fucking mug. He tried to get his revenge, which was clearly necessary as they nursed a 40+ point lead, by dunking on me in transition. But imagine my satisfaction as his attempted dunk clanked off the rim and landed about 25 feet from the basket. He really served fucking notice on that one, and I reacted with a loud cheer to let him know about it.
The game otherwise was seemingly winding down without incident, certainly no broken bones or outbursts similar to the previous two weeks. However, my frustrated friend from the first half resurfaced in the last minute of the game, as our zone defense evolved into a pick-up-whoever-you-can defense while these dicks continued to keep their foot on the gas with a now 50-point lead. Good ole #32 still felt the need to barrel through paint with shoves and elbows those last couple of possessions, and I couldn’t help but laugh and call him out on it. His response: “You wasn’t complaining about it when you was doing it the whole game too.” No shit, asshole, but this is the final minute of a fucking ridiculous blowout. In his defense, however, he hadn’t had a chance to mix it up with me for the previous 19 minutes of the half, so I guess his punk ass needed to try to send me off with a message … as if the final score wasn’t going to be enough.
Final Score: 83-30
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): 17 points on four 3s, two 2s and 1-2 from the line. Generally not a good thing when I guy like me scores half of the team’s points.
Record: 0-6
Next game: July 15 vs. Hickory Hoosiers. By the way, they’re 6-0. Should be a fucking doozy.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Fourth of July Warning: Shoots Flaming Balls
My eight-year-old stepson, perhaps like most kids his age, has a total boner when it comes to fireworks. I hear about it all freaking year, and it's understandably worse than usual as July 4th nears.
"I hope I can blow up some fireworks."
"Are we gonna go see fireworks?"
"Can we go buy some fireworks?"
Shut the fuck up about fireworks.
I love my country, but I hate the Fourth of July. It's almost always dreadfully hot and humid (although this year was an amazing exception in my part of the country), and all most people care about is blowing shit up and watching shit get blown up. My stepson, again, like many others, couldn't even tell me why the Fourth of July is a holiday; yet he was the recipient of more than $100 worth of fireworks this weekend, much of which disturbingly contained the disclaimer that's listed as the title of this blog entry: 'Warning: Shoots Flaming Balls'
A few other nuggets of holiday cheer, which may or may not come as any surprise:
"I hope I can blow up some fireworks."
"Are we gonna go see fireworks?"
"Can we go buy some fireworks?"
Shut the fuck up about fireworks.
I love my country, but I hate the Fourth of July. It's almost always dreadfully hot and humid (although this year was an amazing exception in my part of the country), and all most people care about is blowing shit up and watching shit get blown up. My stepson, again, like many others, couldn't even tell me why the Fourth of July is a holiday; yet he was the recipient of more than $100 worth of fireworks this weekend, much of which disturbingly contained the disclaimer that's listed as the title of this blog entry: 'Warning: Shoots Flaming Balls'
A few other nuggets of holiday cheer, which may or may not come as any surprise:
- It sprinked on a couple of occasions here Saturday, and I was actually hoping it would rain more. I would have had a great appreciation for all of the disappointment surrounding the planned fireworks displays.
- I rooted like crazy for Andy Roddick to win the mens' Wimbledon final Sunday, but I couldn't bring myself to watch the Williams sisters battle for the ladies' title on the morning of the Fourth. There's no way this is going to come off right, but they just seem a little socially challenged. I know their father sheltered them as much as he could while they were being raised, and maybe that's what shows. I'm not even going to try to explain it any further.
- I lost a bet with myself this weekend. My wife felt the need to line our driveway on each side with little American flags. I was sure someone would run over one with a vehicle, and I was fairly certain it was going to be her. Congratulations, sweetheart, I was wrong. Let's go blow some shit up to celebrate.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Game 5: Blood, Sweat and Swears
As foolishly competitive as I am, I've still come to accept the fact that we're probably not going to win a game in this basketball league. Halfway through the schedule, we were a completely imperfect 0-4, and the combined records of our remaining opponents was 13-3. But, again, the aforementioned foolish competitiveness ensures that my team won't go down without some fight.
Game 5: July 1 vs. Anger Management
When I got home from work Wednesday, I found my wife locked in the bathroom with a can of paint (for painting, not sniffing) while our children ran relatively amok. And that was basically the state of my existence for the next couple of hours leading up to basketball. In fact, it actually made me late leaving for the game. Also complicating my arrival at the gym was the realization along the way that my gym bag contained only one shoe. Add six minutes to my ETA.
The game had started by the time I arrived, and we were already in a 16-3 hole. As annoyed as I was by that, I was further disgusted by the mere sight of our opponents. Their nine-man/boy rotation seemed to include an age range of about 16 to 35. They also brought along a fan base of probably a dozen, some aged in single-digit years and others well into the mid-life category. There seemed to be a loud cheer with every basket, every rebound, every fucking step these clowns would take. I had a feeling that by game's end I'd be ready to chuck a loose ball in their direction too.
Once I got onto the floor, it was fairly clear there was nothing we could do. I shit you not, they must have hit ten or 12 shots in a row, whether contested or uncontested. And many of them touched several parts of the rim before falling through the net. As if they didn't have enough of an advantage in overall skill, every loose ball, every bounce and every call seemed to be in their favor.
There was one particular shaggy, whiny bitch who was getting pretty well manhandled under the glass by our own Mr. Peterson, who's easily our best and most experienced player. Pete knows how to play the game the right way and knows how to push people around the right way. His man was crying about getting "cleared out" several times, so I guess there shouldn't have been much surprise late in the first half when Pete emerged from the trenches with blood falling from his nose. It was a cheap shot that our black-shirted queer of an opponent clearly meant to take, apparently not comforted enough by the fact that his team held a slim 27-point lead at the time. What did come as a surprise was that personal and technical fouls were charged to my teammate, the one who'd been bloodied. The ref clarified that he'd seen them both going at it, but shouldn't that mean that a double foul or double technical was more appropriate?
So imagine Pete's reaction, while holding a blood-soaked towel to his face, learning that he'd been the one assessed the technical. I thought it was reasonable enough for him to stick his middle finger in the official's face and yell "Fuck you!" He knew he'd be tossed, and he had to leave to go to the hospital anyway. In my book, he exited like a fucking man.
After probably a ten-minute delay for the otherwise worthless scorekeeper to clean up the blood splatter, Anger Management took its four free throws and the ball, and the first half rather quietly wound down. Halftime score: 48-20.
Frustration grew in the second half as the flow of the game continued just as it started. Our douchy opponents put on a pretty good show for their douchy fans, knocking down shots with rather remarkable consistency and easily collecting rebounds off of our repeated misfires. As usual, our offensive inefficiency also gave up a ridiculous number of transition opportunities. But to our credit (I think), we don't make a habit of giving up easy layups. We physically contested just about everything we could, so foul trouble was a problem. It doesn't help, of course, that the officials call what they think they see rather than what actually occurs. It continually amazes me that these worthless fucks make so little effort to get into position to make the right calls. How much can these fucking losers be getting paid? I'd really like to know that.
Anyway, I think there were about three minutes left in the game when I was whistled for my fifth foul, and it was another questionable one. Trust me, I know when I'm getting my money's worth on a foul, and this wasn't one of those occasions. But when a bigger guy is taking the ball to the rim on a 5'6" 155 lb. lad like myself, who do you think is going to get the benefit of the call? I asked the dumbass ref what I did, and he said, "You were holding him." That wouldn't have even been the right call to make. If anything, I could have seen him thinking I hacked the guy's arm, but a hold? Jesus, what a fucking joke. Just like last week when the worst and laziest ref ever called me for a hold on a guy who I was merely pushing. Semantics, I guess.
Regardless, I wasn't going down without a little more chirping as I made the long walk toward our bench, I loudly announced the fact that it was my fifth fucking foul, and that I had to come out ... and that I didn't want to be on the floor any fucking longer for that bullshit anyway, etc. By the time I reached the scorer's table, that dumb bitch hit the horn and said, "That's it! This game is over!" Perhaps the first game ever called due to excessive profanity. She told me that's why it was called and that this was a family environment. Yeah, a family environment that had witnessed a broken nose and a broken leg over the past two weeks. Fans should come at their own risk, and it's not our fault these fucking opponents had a couple of queers on their roster who weren't even legal adults. I had a solid urge to give that bitch the Peterson treatment with a big "F you" and a middle finger, but I instead just grabbed my shit and got off the court. Then I went to a nearby bar with my brother, downed four gin-and-tonics in about in hour and went home. Happy Fourth of July weekend.
Final Score: I have no fucking clue. We were down by a LOT when that final horn sounded though.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero. I honestly don't think I scored a fucking point, which would be appropriate if this game goes down as a forfeit (which it might). In most leagues, forfeits go in the books as a 1-0 or 2-0 score, unless you're in a league where total points are used as a tiebreaker; some of those have forfeit scores of 100-0. Anyway, I sucked in this game.
Record: 0-5
Next game: July 8 vs. T-Birds.
Game 5: July 1 vs. Anger Management
When I got home from work Wednesday, I found my wife locked in the bathroom with a can of paint (for painting, not sniffing) while our children ran relatively amok. And that was basically the state of my existence for the next couple of hours leading up to basketball. In fact, it actually made me late leaving for the game. Also complicating my arrival at the gym was the realization along the way that my gym bag contained only one shoe. Add six minutes to my ETA.
The game had started by the time I arrived, and we were already in a 16-3 hole. As annoyed as I was by that, I was further disgusted by the mere sight of our opponents. Their nine-man/boy rotation seemed to include an age range of about 16 to 35. They also brought along a fan base of probably a dozen, some aged in single-digit years and others well into the mid-life category. There seemed to be a loud cheer with every basket, every rebound, every fucking step these clowns would take. I had a feeling that by game's end I'd be ready to chuck a loose ball in their direction too.
Once I got onto the floor, it was fairly clear there was nothing we could do. I shit you not, they must have hit ten or 12 shots in a row, whether contested or uncontested. And many of them touched several parts of the rim before falling through the net. As if they didn't have enough of an advantage in overall skill, every loose ball, every bounce and every call seemed to be in their favor.
There was one particular shaggy, whiny bitch who was getting pretty well manhandled under the glass by our own Mr. Peterson, who's easily our best and most experienced player. Pete knows how to play the game the right way and knows how to push people around the right way. His man was crying about getting "cleared out" several times, so I guess there shouldn't have been much surprise late in the first half when Pete emerged from the trenches with blood falling from his nose. It was a cheap shot that our black-shirted queer of an opponent clearly meant to take, apparently not comforted enough by the fact that his team held a slim 27-point lead at the time. What did come as a surprise was that personal and technical fouls were charged to my teammate, the one who'd been bloodied. The ref clarified that he'd seen them both going at it, but shouldn't that mean that a double foul or double technical was more appropriate?
So imagine Pete's reaction, while holding a blood-soaked towel to his face, learning that he'd been the one assessed the technical. I thought it was reasonable enough for him to stick his middle finger in the official's face and yell "Fuck you!" He knew he'd be tossed, and he had to leave to go to the hospital anyway. In my book, he exited like a fucking man.
After probably a ten-minute delay for the otherwise worthless scorekeeper to clean up the blood splatter, Anger Management took its four free throws and the ball, and the first half rather quietly wound down. Halftime score: 48-20.
Frustration grew in the second half as the flow of the game continued just as it started. Our douchy opponents put on a pretty good show for their douchy fans, knocking down shots with rather remarkable consistency and easily collecting rebounds off of our repeated misfires. As usual, our offensive inefficiency also gave up a ridiculous number of transition opportunities. But to our credit (I think), we don't make a habit of giving up easy layups. We physically contested just about everything we could, so foul trouble was a problem. It doesn't help, of course, that the officials call what they think they see rather than what actually occurs. It continually amazes me that these worthless fucks make so little effort to get into position to make the right calls. How much can these fucking losers be getting paid? I'd really like to know that.
Anyway, I think there were about three minutes left in the game when I was whistled for my fifth foul, and it was another questionable one. Trust me, I know when I'm getting my money's worth on a foul, and this wasn't one of those occasions. But when a bigger guy is taking the ball to the rim on a 5'6" 155 lb. lad like myself, who do you think is going to get the benefit of the call? I asked the dumbass ref what I did, and he said, "You were holding him." That wouldn't have even been the right call to make. If anything, I could have seen him thinking I hacked the guy's arm, but a hold? Jesus, what a fucking joke. Just like last week when the worst and laziest ref ever called me for a hold on a guy who I was merely pushing. Semantics, I guess.
Regardless, I wasn't going down without a little more chirping as I made the long walk toward our bench, I loudly announced the fact that it was my fifth fucking foul, and that I had to come out ... and that I didn't want to be on the floor any fucking longer for that bullshit anyway, etc. By the time I reached the scorer's table, that dumb bitch hit the horn and said, "That's it! This game is over!" Perhaps the first game ever called due to excessive profanity. She told me that's why it was called and that this was a family environment. Yeah, a family environment that had witnessed a broken nose and a broken leg over the past two weeks. Fans should come at their own risk, and it's not our fault these fucking opponents had a couple of queers on their roster who weren't even legal adults. I had a solid urge to give that bitch the Peterson treatment with a big "F you" and a middle finger, but I instead just grabbed my shit and got off the court. Then I went to a nearby bar with my brother, downed four gin-and-tonics in about in hour and went home. Happy Fourth of July weekend.
Final Score: I have no fucking clue. We were down by a LOT when that final horn sounded though.
SJI Contribution (my postgame recollection of it): Zero. I honestly don't think I scored a fucking point, which would be appropriate if this game goes down as a forfeit (which it might). In most leagues, forfeits go in the books as a 1-0 or 2-0 score, unless you're in a league where total points are used as a tiebreaker; some of those have forfeit scores of 100-0. Anyway, I sucked in this game.
Record: 0-5
Next game: July 8 vs. T-Birds.
Where the Fuck Is Wimbledon?
Today's Wimbledon semifinal is the biggest match in Andy Murray's career, as one of Great Britain's own finds himself one step away from playing for the title. It's certainly one of the biggest matches of Andy Roddick's career too, as he's trying to prove he's still one of the game's elite.
So where the fuck is it?
With Roddick up 5-2 in the third, the match is nowhere to be found. ESPN's morning coverage just ended with a replay of the end of last year's Federer-Nadal final, no doubt the best match I've ever seen. But why in the fucking world is that being aired while live tennis -- a much-hyped semifinal at that-- is going uncovered? NBC's shitty coverage doesn't start for another hour, at which point it will surely be tape-delayed. By then, the match might actually be over.
This is bull shit. On an otherwise pleasant and rainy day off from work, I'm stuck following the match online while I air my grievances here. I understand that tennis is not a high priority for many people, but this is a huge match in the most prestigious event of the year.
I can't be the only one who's pissed off about this. I'm just enough of an asshole to share my feelings with the broadcast networks. Perhaps I will.
So where the fuck is it?
With Roddick up 5-2 in the third, the match is nowhere to be found. ESPN's morning coverage just ended with a replay of the end of last year's Federer-Nadal final, no doubt the best match I've ever seen. But why in the fucking world is that being aired while live tennis -- a much-hyped semifinal at that-- is going uncovered? NBC's shitty coverage doesn't start for another hour, at which point it will surely be tape-delayed. By then, the match might actually be over.
This is bull shit. On an otherwise pleasant and rainy day off from work, I'm stuck following the match online while I air my grievances here. I understand that tennis is not a high priority for many people, but this is a huge match in the most prestigious event of the year.
I can't be the only one who's pissed off about this. I'm just enough of an asshole to share my feelings with the broadcast networks. Perhaps I will.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
As Usual, Jerry Seinfeld Was Right
The DMV is a leper colony.
That's what Jerry Seinfeld said when stating his case that a vast majority of the public is unattractive. A one-in-20 shot, he said. And after spending an hour at the DMV this morning, I'm reminded that Jerry is much closer to the truth than most people probably think.
Honestly, one-in-20 may be generous for the crowd I was a part of today. No offense to the kind gentleman who helped me with my vehicle registration renewal, but generally the demeanor of the employees doesn't help either. It's just not a wonderful place to be. One very pleasant surprise, however, were the new additions since my last visit: Flat screen TVs. I was able to position myself in front of a muted Sportscenter, which at least seemed to make my one-hour wait time go by a little faster.
Still, there are only so many times I wish to see entirely worthless bits of sports news crawl across the bottom of the screen. Does anyone really fucking care that Candace Parker practiced for the first time since her pregnancy/maternity leave? Maybe the WNBA should prepare for its viewership to double from 10 to 20.
But I'll admit that my pain here is somewhat self-inflicted. One of these years I'll plan enough in advance to get my tag renewals done through the mail, and I won't have to show up in person. And because I wait so long (or forget), I always end up there on the busiest days -- either the last day or the first day of the month.
Some other observations I was left to ponder during my wait:
That's what Jerry Seinfeld said when stating his case that a vast majority of the public is unattractive. A one-in-20 shot, he said. And after spending an hour at the DMV this morning, I'm reminded that Jerry is much closer to the truth than most people probably think.
Honestly, one-in-20 may be generous for the crowd I was a part of today. No offense to the kind gentleman who helped me with my vehicle registration renewal, but generally the demeanor of the employees doesn't help either. It's just not a wonderful place to be. One very pleasant surprise, however, were the new additions since my last visit: Flat screen TVs. I was able to position myself in front of a muted Sportscenter, which at least seemed to make my one-hour wait time go by a little faster.
Still, there are only so many times I wish to see entirely worthless bits of sports news crawl across the bottom of the screen. Does anyone really fucking care that Candace Parker practiced for the first time since her pregnancy/maternity leave? Maybe the WNBA should prepare for its viewership to double from 10 to 20.
But I'll admit that my pain here is somewhat self-inflicted. One of these years I'll plan enough in advance to get my tag renewals done through the mail, and I won't have to show up in person. And because I wait so long (or forget), I always end up there on the busiest days -- either the last day or the first day of the month.
Some other observations I was left to ponder during my wait:
- I showed up at exactly 7:30 this morning, which was when the office opened. I actually had to wait in line just to get a number, and I was 36th among those who were there for renewals. It took 58 minutes to get to #36.
- Why are there 28 different windows when there never appear to be more than a dozen employees working the same shift? Does every DMV worker really need his or her own cube to decorate? (The answer to that is no, unless the man who helped me really was named Joyce and the African-American children pictured all over the walls were actually his).
- Isn't there a local cop who's enough of a dick to drive through the DMV parking lot on the morning of the 1st of the month, knowing he'll find a shitload of cars with expired tags that he can ticket? I'm amazed this has never happened. There must be some sort of regulation in place to prevent that. No other explanation.
- Quote of the day from a man sitting nearby, after another man questioned how long it could really take to get through the line: "They're in no hurry. I'm sure half the people here don't work anyway."
- My penalty for registering my two vehicles one day late: $0.09.
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