In the NFL playoffs, a bye is a basically win. And while we all know that college football can’t be compared to the NFL, especially the playoff format, that’s how I’m trying to consider this weekend as a University of Illinois football fan. This mid-September bye week should be like a win.
The Illini's season-opening turd has already been somewhat documented. Coming in as a six-point favorite against a non-conference rival in a neutral site, the Orange & Blue went ahead and played entirely uninspired, losing by four touchdowns. Our best player, Arrelious Benn, named by some as the Big Ten's preseason Offensive Player of the Year, lasted less than a minute before being sidelined due to a sprained ankle. He didn't return. Not long after that, our starting running back also left for good with an ankle issue. And, oh by the way, Jason Ford was only the #1 running back that day because our incumbent starter didn't dress for the game due to his own ankle injury.
Christ, is this football or fucking log-rolling?
Now consider our second game, last Saturday versus Illinois State. On our first play from scrimmage, quarterback Juice Williams, a three-year starter, rumbled untouched down the left sideline on an option keeper. He’d have scored if he didn’t stumble on his own just as he crossed the five. Falling just short of the goal line, it was obvious he was at least somewhat injured. He stayed in the game to hand the ball off for a one-yard touchdown run on the next play, but that was his last play of the night.
The good news was that none of the aforementioned injuries were terribly serious. Although Benn’s absence clearly affected the overall offensive performance in the opener – I admit, probably not a 28-point difference – he and Ford were both back for the Illinois State game. Juice apparently wanted to come back in after his strained quad, but the coaching staff didn’t want to risk it. So all three will be 100% when the Illini visit Columbus, Ohio, one week from today.
But another very key player won’t be. Our lone returning starter at linebacker and arguably our best defensive player, junior Martez Wilson, is out for the year. With a herniated disk in his neck, Wilson was forced to undergo surgery this week. He didn’t play against Illinois State, but the staff was optimistic about his recovery. He even returned to practice earlier this week, albeit wearing a red jersey to alert the rest of the team that he was in there for non-contact purposes only. His appearance in those drills clearly provided a false sense of hope, as the bad news was delivered on Thursday.
So what does this mean for the state of Illinois football? I don’t know, but this might just be a fucking cursed season. Think about it: Best player goes down on the first series of the first game and doesn’t return. Second-best player goes down on our first offensive play of the second game and doesn’t return. Best defensive player is ruled out for the season during an early-season bye week. Fuck. I cringe thinking about what might have happened if we actually had an opponent on the schedule this weekend.
After a rather trying first few weeks of the season, the team must now gather itself to play against perennial Big Ten frontrunner Ohio State. Most people remember the Illini’s win in Columbus two years ago on their way to an unlikely Rose Bowl berth. But what most people don’t know is that Illinois has actually won seven of its last ten there. Ok, that clearly doesn’t mean a damn thing right now, especially for a team that has struggled to stop anyone for the last year and a half.
I don’t know what to expect, but after just a few weeks of the 2009 season, it seems unreasonable just to hope that the starting lineup can remain fully intact. And that's some bullshit.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
The Greatest Show on Earth?
At 4:57pm yesterday I got a text from my wife exclaiming, "We're going to the circus tonight!"
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
I didn't know how to react. Our house itself can be somewhat like a circus considering the behavior of our children and the noise level that accompanies it. That's no indictment of my kids either; I know that's just how kids are. But what the hell was my wife talking about? If the circus were being used as a metaphor for our house and our life, then we technically wouldn't be going anywhere. I knew that there was a three-year-old's birthday party coming up and that the kid's mom was promoting it with a circus theme. But I doubted that it would be on a Thursday night.
Could there really be a circus in town and, if so, could we really be going?
Yes and yes.
As exhausted and generally crappy as I'd felt all week up until that point, I didn't greet this news with overwhelming enthusiasm. We were headed to what was sure to be a crowded, load and flamboyant event, packed with children who were sure to be armed with boundless energy and overpriced and annoying souvenir toys. But in the spirit of being a good father and husband, I certainly wasn't going to turn my back on this. And it helped that we'd been hooked up with free tickets for the whole family.
So we were off to the so-called "Greatest Show on Earth." How bad could it be? "The Greatest Show on Turf" was pretty entertaining about ten years ago, with the likes of Kurt Warner, Marshall Faulk and Isaac Bruce leading a high-powered St. Louis Rams attack. Wait a minute, though, I hated that fucking team.
The first hurdle to clear, after simply trying to get the kids appropriately prepared and packed into the car for our outing, was parking. That's always an adventure when attending a large event such as this one, especially one when it's being held at a downtown arena. And, of course, it can be pricey. So imagine my surprise when I pulled into a multi-level garage just three blocks from the Sprint Center and was asked to only pay $2. The logical conclusion is that the folks at Standard Parking feel sorry for those headed to the circus. The attendant actually asked me where we were going before telling me how much I owed. What if I'd responded that I was meeting friends at one of the bars at the Power & Light District, probably the most popular social scene in the city? Would that have cost me $10? That's what I was prepared to pay last night. I'm pretty sure that's what it cost to park in the same garage for the two other events I'd attended at the Sprint Center, to wholly different events -- a Coldplay concert and a college basketball game -- but the same kind of large-scale entertainment. But, trust me, I wasn't about to argue.
It's too bad, though, that this apparent event-based pricing didn't carry over into the arena. Beer still cost $6.00 and $7.50, and I actually paid $7.00 for a big box of popcorn. Of course, I was the asshole for that in the eyes of my children because they had to share the box. Sorry, fellas, I'm not dropping $14 for something I could make at home for mere cents. Consider yourselves lucky for even pulling the one.
The circus itself, predictably, was a fucking circus: elephants, tigers and lots of man-on-man homoerotic acrobatics. I actually don't remember ever having attended a circus before, so I didn't know exactly what to expect as far as its format. It ended up playing out much like a musical. It was a story, albeit a very lame one (the ringmaster trying to get his hat back from a retardly annoying clown), with daring acts and song and dance peppered throughout. Honestly, I did find parts of it somewhat interesting. I think it's kind of cool that people can get elephants and tigers to stand up on their back legs and wave their front legs like begging dogs. Having seven motorcyclists speeding simultaneously through a steel globe was pretty freaking insane, and I'm still amazed that I didn't witness multiple fatalities during that display.
But the kids made it all worth it. Each one of them clearly enjoyed the circus a great deal, and that includes 21-month-old Lukas, who spent must of the time staring in wide-eyed wonderment. Plus, I made it out without having to buy souvenirs. So even with the ridiculous price tag of the popcorn, the whole event cost us just $9.00. If you want to get really specific, you can add another $2.31 for gas. That's what a gallon costs around here these days, and the roundtrip (24 miles is my guess, since that's what my back-and-forth to work is each day) was probably good to burn exactly that.
The Greatest Show on Earth? I'd say not. But for $11.31 for a family of five, it worked out pretty damn well.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Kicking Off with the Wrong Freaking Foot
At 11:00am on the first Saturday of the college football season, neither of the TVs in my house were tuned to the start of a game. DisneyXD's animated Spiderman series was on one, while the other was being used for playback of a Sesame Street sing-along DVD. In a perfect world, I might have been halfway between Kansas City and St. Louis, on my way to the Fighting Illini season opener. But this world is clearly far from perfect.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Although I didn't have a ticket, I'd entertained the idea of making the trip to St. Louis all the way up until Friday night. My wife even supported the plan. But when I had to head out of the house at 1:30am to purchase pain relievers for my littlest boy, I knew there was no way I'd be making my solo gameday roadtrip.
Most of the day instead centered around keeping our children happy and comfortable; by late morning it was clear that Joey wasn't 100% either. So the 2:40pm kickoff of the Illinois-Missouri game arrived not with me sitting in the Edward Jones Dome, not with me screaming at the television in anticipation of the start of the season, but with me sitting relatively reserved (at least on the outside) with a somewhat-ill child by my side, while my miserably-ill child was with his mother at our doctor's urgent care office. Not at all what I had in mind for gameday.
By the time Lukas returned home with a diagnosis of two ear infections and mouth ulcers consistent with the 'Hand, Foot and Mouth' disease virus, the Illini were already in a 10-0 hole and my blood pressure likely would have blown the cuff off of my arm. Things clearly didn't get much better as I watched every snap of a game that I now feel comfortable saying was the most disappointing football performance I've seen in recent memory. And I watched it primarily in a silent living room.
I'm usually the person who has a comment for every play, the annoyingly educated fan who call outs individual players away from the ball during the action. It doesn't matter if I'm alone or with a group of people or in public. So imagine the trouble I had trying to watch this game in silence, watching my beloved alma mater appear ill-prepared from the start, lose its best player to injury on the opening series and make the same mistakes as last year's disappointing 5-7 team.
You wanna know how it feels? When someone who usually bursts with emotion is forced to keep it bottled up inside? Physically ill, that's how it feels. My head throbbed, and I felt like I was going vomit.
I didn't watch another snap of football the rest of the day, and I don't look forward to watching any in the near future.
The weekend began with so much promise. The forecast of nice weather, the kickoff of college football with the Illini as a six-point favorite and, of course, knowing there's an extra day off before heading back to work. But it quickly crashed and burned. The late night/early morning trip to the pharmacy -- which was actually two stops instead of one since Walgreens didn't have what I needed -- is the only time I've been out of the house since Friday evening. Now here I sit, monitoring sick children, doing laundry and dreaming of a better outcome.
What could be next? Cleaning the fucking garage? Maybe the basement? At this rate I shouldn't be surprised if I'm called into work on a federal holiday.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Is Cursing Really My Legacy?
One day, some 20 years after our tenure as childhood neighbors had ended, my old friend Bob described me as having the foulest mouth at the earliest age of anyone he’d ever known. That’s the kind of thing that I think probably makes most people just shake their heads. And I can live with that.
Now, at the age of 32, any of my friends or family could assure you that my vocabulary remains quite liberal. And, as a father, I’ve found this isn’t necessarily a commendable achievement.
I’ve shared some stories at work about my three-year-old son’s impressive understanding of profanity – not only does he use the words, but he does so in the appropriate context. That prompts occasional questions like the one I received today: “Have your kids cussed anymore lately?”
Usually the questions aren’t so direct. They’re more like: “Do you have any funny Joey stories?” But today’s inquiry was right to the point, and it’s follow-up was what alarmed me.
“That is your legacy.”
Really? I know I may not ever be Father of the Year material, but can we already conclude that my fatherly legacy is exposing my children to four-letter words? I’d like to think I can set my sights a little higher.
I coach sports, I help with puzzles, I read books, and I even sing some songs. I like to think I do a lot of the responsible and positive day-to-day dad duties. Do my profane tendencies truly cast a shadow over all of that?
One thing that’s fairly certain is that I’m not likely to change. It’s just the way I am. With work, family, sports, everything, I’m a very high-stress guy. There are plenty of rants and outbursts that clearly don’t make me the greatest of influences on everyone. And I can live with that.
But my kids? I’d like to think I have enough of the right qualities to outweigh some bad words. This fatherhood shit gets more tricky everyday.
Now, at the age of 32, any of my friends or family could assure you that my vocabulary remains quite liberal. And, as a father, I’ve found this isn’t necessarily a commendable achievement.
I’ve shared some stories at work about my three-year-old son’s impressive understanding of profanity – not only does he use the words, but he does so in the appropriate context. That prompts occasional questions like the one I received today: “Have your kids cussed anymore lately?”
Usually the questions aren’t so direct. They’re more like: “Do you have any funny Joey stories?” But today’s inquiry was right to the point, and it’s follow-up was what alarmed me.
“That is your legacy.”
Really? I know I may not ever be Father of the Year material, but can we already conclude that my fatherly legacy is exposing my children to four-letter words? I’d like to think I can set my sights a little higher.
I coach sports, I help with puzzles, I read books, and I even sing some songs. I like to think I do a lot of the responsible and positive day-to-day dad duties. Do my profane tendencies truly cast a shadow over all of that?
One thing that’s fairly certain is that I’m not likely to change. It’s just the way I am. With work, family, sports, everything, I’m a very high-stress guy. There are plenty of rants and outbursts that clearly don’t make me the greatest of influences on everyone. And I can live with that.
But my kids? I’d like to think I have enough of the right qualities to outweigh some bad words. This fatherhood shit gets more tricky everyday.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
"He does not like you. And all indications are he does not like Drake's Coffee Cake."
Hearing another story of mild bullying aimed at my eight-year-old stepson reminds me of just how insignificant most people are. It reminds me of the Seinfeld quote used as the title of this post. And it reminds me that I've had my own run-ins that now seem as ridiculous as ever.
When I was in seventh grade, I became good friends with a female classmate who lived down the street from me. We'd talk on the phone, we'd talk on the bus, and she'd even give me a hug sometimes after the bus left us on 80th Terrace each weekday afternoon. She was a good friend.
Seems like a nice story, no? Yes, until I got a phonecall from her boyfriend one afternoon. I'd never much spoken with the guy, one of those really popular seventh-graders who looked more like he belonged in high school. Anyway, our conversation was brief. In fact, I don't remember saying anything after, "Hello?" Here's what he said:
"Hey, Steve, this is Joel. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to kick your ass."
Now how the fuck is a 4'10" turd like me supposed to react to something like that? First of all, it was clearly good news that I wasn't going to be the target of physical harm. But, needless to say, I was a bit troubled by the revelation that this needed clarification.
I should also mention that it wasn't long after this incident when perhaps the baddest mother fucker among eighth graders at my school basically threatened me to my face after hearing me speak very casually and innocuously about his girlfriend, who was also a good friend of mine. Seriously, I'd seen this guy stand toe-to-toe with one of my brother's friends the previous year ... and my brother's friend was junior in high school at the time. Yeah, and he needed to waste his time talking shit to my face.
I guess I've always just had a way with people like that. And that's kind of interesting to me, because I feel like when I put forth the effort most people who get to know me think I'm a pretty affable guy. Maybe the dudes just get threatened by a pip-squeak who befriends their ladies.
But I suppose the point of this brief story is that not everyone is going to like you or the things you do or the things you say. I learned that long ago, which is why the description in my profile reads the way it does. I know those whose opinions matter the most to me, so why should I worry much about anyone else?
Sweat the shit that matters to you most ... and just hope it doesn't overlap with the shit that's getting thrown in your face by meaningless pricks.
When I was in seventh grade, I became good friends with a female classmate who lived down the street from me. We'd talk on the phone, we'd talk on the bus, and she'd even give me a hug sometimes after the bus left us on 80th Terrace each weekday afternoon. She was a good friend.
Seems like a nice story, no? Yes, until I got a phonecall from her boyfriend one afternoon. I'd never much spoken with the guy, one of those really popular seventh-graders who looked more like he belonged in high school. Anyway, our conversation was brief. In fact, I don't remember saying anything after, "Hello?" Here's what he said:
"Hey, Steve, this is Joel. I just wanted to tell you that I'm not going to kick your ass."
Now how the fuck is a 4'10" turd like me supposed to react to something like that? First of all, it was clearly good news that I wasn't going to be the target of physical harm. But, needless to say, I was a bit troubled by the revelation that this needed clarification.
I should also mention that it wasn't long after this incident when perhaps the baddest mother fucker among eighth graders at my school basically threatened me to my face after hearing me speak very casually and innocuously about his girlfriend, who was also a good friend of mine. Seriously, I'd seen this guy stand toe-to-toe with one of my brother's friends the previous year ... and my brother's friend was junior in high school at the time. Yeah, and he needed to waste his time talking shit to my face.
I guess I've always just had a way with people like that. And that's kind of interesting to me, because I feel like when I put forth the effort most people who get to know me think I'm a pretty affable guy. Maybe the dudes just get threatened by a pip-squeak who befriends their ladies.
But I suppose the point of this brief story is that not everyone is going to like you or the things you do or the things you say. I learned that long ago, which is why the description in my profile reads the way it does. I know those whose opinions matter the most to me, so why should I worry much about anyone else?
Sweat the shit that matters to you most ... and just hope it doesn't overlap with the shit that's getting thrown in your face by meaningless pricks.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
AC0063100
The sign beyond Wrigley Field’s rightfield bleachers says it all. If you know what it means. It’s basically a representation of the Chicago Cubs’ long-term futility.
The first two numbers show how long it’s been since the Cubs have won their division. No problem there. As the two-time defending NL Central Champion, that number sits at a nice double-zero. The issue is with the remaining numbers. 63 seasons have passed since a National League title, hence the 63. And the last three digits, well, it’s only been a three-digit number since last fall. The 100 is the nice round number that indicates the length of the Cubs’ World Series title drought.
It’s a harsh reminder every time it’s visible, which is quite often when you watch as much Cubs baseball as I do. And I’m now starting to try to cope with the reality that those numbers posted on the Lakeview apartment building/rooftop suites are about to change for the worse.
With 38 games remaining in the season, the Cubs have to be considered baseball’s biggest disappointment in 2009. Just one game over .500, the Cubs are nine games behind the rival Cardinals, who again seem to be overachieving. It’s worth noting also that the Cubs and Cards play only three more games against one another, the other 13 head-to-head meetings all taking place before the All-Star break (if my memory is correct – and it usually is in these cases – the Cardinals lead the season series 8-5).
So here’s the reality I’m faced with: If St. Louis were to somehow split its remaining 34 games, the Cubs would basically still need to play .700 baseball to get past those cocksuckers in the standings. Let’s say the Cardinals go 17-17 the rest of the way. The Cubs will need to go 28-10 just to force a tie and a one-game playoff for the division crown.
Needless to say, I’m not holding my breath (as evidenced by all of the profanity that I spray around my house during the games).
Optimism just isn’t my thing. But I can’t help but go back to the “on paper” argument. For shit’s sake, the Cubs should be a better team. They should be the ones who are 74-54 right now. I challenge anyone to look the Cubs’ and Cardinals’ rosters up and down – starting lineup, benches, starting pitching rotations and bullpens – and tell me that the Cubs aren’t the more impressive team. It’s just bullshit, and I’m fucking tired of it.
On the MLB Network’s 2009 Prediction Special at the start of the season, all nine of its panelists picked the Cubs to win the NL Central. Consistent with the consensus selection of the Cubs as the division champs, Tom Verducci said the Cubs should be the surest bet of any division winner in the league. Ever the pessimist, I couldn’t help but think that just sounded to good to be true.
I’m not into the talk of curses and all that noise, but something has to give one of these days.
AC0164101?
That looks fucking terrible.
The first two numbers show how long it’s been since the Cubs have won their division. No problem there. As the two-time defending NL Central Champion, that number sits at a nice double-zero. The issue is with the remaining numbers. 63 seasons have passed since a National League title, hence the 63. And the last three digits, well, it’s only been a three-digit number since last fall. The 100 is the nice round number that indicates the length of the Cubs’ World Series title drought.
It’s a harsh reminder every time it’s visible, which is quite often when you watch as much Cubs baseball as I do. And I’m now starting to try to cope with the reality that those numbers posted on the Lakeview apartment building/rooftop suites are about to change for the worse.
With 38 games remaining in the season, the Cubs have to be considered baseball’s biggest disappointment in 2009. Just one game over .500, the Cubs are nine games behind the rival Cardinals, who again seem to be overachieving. It’s worth noting also that the Cubs and Cards play only three more games against one another, the other 13 head-to-head meetings all taking place before the All-Star break (if my memory is correct – and it usually is in these cases – the Cardinals lead the season series 8-5).
So here’s the reality I’m faced with: If St. Louis were to somehow split its remaining 34 games, the Cubs would basically still need to play .700 baseball to get past those cocksuckers in the standings. Let’s say the Cardinals go 17-17 the rest of the way. The Cubs will need to go 28-10 just to force a tie and a one-game playoff for the division crown.
Needless to say, I’m not holding my breath (as evidenced by all of the profanity that I spray around my house during the games).
Optimism just isn’t my thing. But I can’t help but go back to the “on paper” argument. For shit’s sake, the Cubs should be a better team. They should be the ones who are 74-54 right now. I challenge anyone to look the Cubs’ and Cardinals’ rosters up and down – starting lineup, benches, starting pitching rotations and bullpens – and tell me that the Cubs aren’t the more impressive team. It’s just bullshit, and I’m fucking tired of it.
On the MLB Network’s 2009 Prediction Special at the start of the season, all nine of its panelists picked the Cubs to win the NL Central. Consistent with the consensus selection of the Cubs as the division champs, Tom Verducci said the Cubs should be the surest bet of any division winner in the league. Ever the pessimist, I couldn’t help but think that just sounded to good to be true.
I’m not into the talk of curses and all that noise, but something has to give one of these days.
AC0164101?
That looks fucking terrible.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Fantasies Aren't Always Fantastic
Over the past 12 months, I've somehow become an awful fantasy sports player. I'm hoping to simply chalk it up as a bad year, but things certainly couldn't be any worse than where they stand now.
After reaching the playoffs in all three of my fantasy sports in 2008 (football, baseball and basketball), I've really laid an egg in '09.
I'd like to blame most of it on injuries. My top two picks in fantasy basketball -- Kevin Garnett and Deron Williams -- battled injuries early in the season. And while Williams recovered and posted the kind of numbers that were expected, Garnett's physical woes lasted throughout the year. I knew I should have taken Dwight Howard. So, just like a NBA team battling to earn the most ping-pong balls for the draft lottery, I pretty much mailed it in for the last couple of months of the season. I was that far out of contention.
Fantasy baseball hasn't been much better. I thought my team was built great on paper:
C - Jorge Posada
1B - Carlos Delgado
2B - Brian Roberts
SS - Jimmy Rollins
3B - Aramis Ramirez
OF - Josh Hamilton
OF - Curtis Granderson
OF - Raul Ibanez
Util - Nate McLouth/Milton Bradley/Alex Rios
SP - CC Sabathia
SP - Yovani Gallardo
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Bobby Jenks
Yeah, looks good on paper, just like the 2009 Chicago Cubs. I'm going to again have to play the injury card a little, considering my corner infielders didn't last much more than a couple of weeks before landing on the shelf. Ramirez didn't get back until around the All-Star Break, while Delgado is still gone.
And why wasn't I told that Josh Hamilton fell off the fucking wagon in January? Sure, it may have been an isolated incident, and I shouldn't be one to blame a guy for having a few drinks, but it may have swayed my opinion of him a bit. Might not have burned a top 15 pick on him. Of course, Hamilton ended up spending some time on the DL too.
My top pick, Jimmy Rollins, just two years removed from an MVP season, was also a royal turd over the first couple of months. Who could have predicted that?
Anyway, so fantasy baseball is fucking done too. And, consistent with the rest of my 2009 performance, my new fantasy endeavor of English Premier League soccer has gotten off to a really bad start. For two weeks in a row to start the season, I've forgotten to register my team. Obviously this one is not of great priority.
But fantasy football can be the great redemption. My draft was this past week, and I'm ready to get things going. There was, of course, an early speedbump. Thanks to a shitty day at work Wednesday, I didn't have a chance to fine-tune my depth chart knowledge as much as I'd hoped, so by day's end I knew I was somewhat screwed for my 6:00pm draft. Therefore, it was time for a new strategy.
I arrived at the Fox and Hound armed with a pen and just one sheet of paper: a list of bye weeks for the 2009 NFL season. That was all I wanted. I'd rely otherwise only on the expertise between my ears. Here's the result, the projected starting lineup for the Galloping Ghosts in Week 1:
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Steve Slaton, Clinton Portis
WR - Chad Ochocinco, TJ Houshmandzadeh, Lee Evans
TE - Jeremy Shockey
K - Neil Rackers (Go Illinois)
D - San Diego
I'll admit that by the sixth round, my brother insisted on giving me a copy of one of his cheat sheets (only because he had an extra one), and there were a couple of occasions when I peeked at my buddy Dan's magazine. But I felt okay about what I'd done.
Other than my perhaps puzzling draft strategy, the night had the usual highlights/lowlights: My friend Dave brought way too much paperwork and got far too drunk, my brother shamelessly drafted a member of the Minnesota Vikings (as a rabid Bears' fan like myself, I always hope he'll have the same no-Vikings and no-Packers philosophy), and my friend Troy made an inappropriate comment about my mother.
Here's to what I hope is a 2009-saving football season.
After reaching the playoffs in all three of my fantasy sports in 2008 (football, baseball and basketball), I've really laid an egg in '09.
I'd like to blame most of it on injuries. My top two picks in fantasy basketball -- Kevin Garnett and Deron Williams -- battled injuries early in the season. And while Williams recovered and posted the kind of numbers that were expected, Garnett's physical woes lasted throughout the year. I knew I should have taken Dwight Howard. So, just like a NBA team battling to earn the most ping-pong balls for the draft lottery, I pretty much mailed it in for the last couple of months of the season. I was that far out of contention.
Fantasy baseball hasn't been much better. I thought my team was built great on paper:
C - Jorge Posada
1B - Carlos Delgado
2B - Brian Roberts
SS - Jimmy Rollins
3B - Aramis Ramirez
OF - Josh Hamilton
OF - Curtis Granderson
OF - Raul Ibanez
Util - Nate McLouth/Milton Bradley/Alex Rios
SP - CC Sabathia
SP - Yovani Gallardo
RP - Francisco Rodriguez
RP - Bobby Jenks
Yeah, looks good on paper, just like the 2009 Chicago Cubs. I'm going to again have to play the injury card a little, considering my corner infielders didn't last much more than a couple of weeks before landing on the shelf. Ramirez didn't get back until around the All-Star Break, while Delgado is still gone.
And why wasn't I told that Josh Hamilton fell off the fucking wagon in January? Sure, it may have been an isolated incident, and I shouldn't be one to blame a guy for having a few drinks, but it may have swayed my opinion of him a bit. Might not have burned a top 15 pick on him. Of course, Hamilton ended up spending some time on the DL too.
My top pick, Jimmy Rollins, just two years removed from an MVP season, was also a royal turd over the first couple of months. Who could have predicted that?
Anyway, so fantasy baseball is fucking done too. And, consistent with the rest of my 2009 performance, my new fantasy endeavor of English Premier League soccer has gotten off to a really bad start. For two weeks in a row to start the season, I've forgotten to register my team. Obviously this one is not of great priority.
But fantasy football can be the great redemption. My draft was this past week, and I'm ready to get things going. There was, of course, an early speedbump. Thanks to a shitty day at work Wednesday, I didn't have a chance to fine-tune my depth chart knowledge as much as I'd hoped, so by day's end I knew I was somewhat screwed for my 6:00pm draft. Therefore, it was time for a new strategy.
I arrived at the Fox and Hound armed with a pen and just one sheet of paper: a list of bye weeks for the 2009 NFL season. That was all I wanted. I'd rely otherwise only on the expertise between my ears. Here's the result, the projected starting lineup for the Galloping Ghosts in Week 1:
QB - Tony Romo
RB - Steve Slaton, Clinton Portis
WR - Chad Ochocinco, TJ Houshmandzadeh, Lee Evans
TE - Jeremy Shockey
K - Neil Rackers (Go Illinois)
D - San Diego
I'll admit that by the sixth round, my brother insisted on giving me a copy of one of his cheat sheets (only because he had an extra one), and there were a couple of occasions when I peeked at my buddy Dan's magazine. But I felt okay about what I'd done.
Other than my perhaps puzzling draft strategy, the night had the usual highlights/lowlights: My friend Dave brought way too much paperwork and got far too drunk, my brother shamelessly drafted a member of the Minnesota Vikings (as a rabid Bears' fan like myself, I always hope he'll have the same no-Vikings and no-Packers philosophy), and my friend Troy made an inappropriate comment about my mother.
Here's to what I hope is a 2009-saving football season.
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