...better not be blowing in the wind. What the hell's with Drew Breeze. There's good and then there's an unnerving good. The kind of good quarterback, team, coach that is so goddamn unassuming, egoless, modest that it rattles one's nerves inexplicably -because it is inexplicable - The New Orleans Saints. The New Orleans Saints. I ask you.
At the beginning of the 2009/10 NFL season, I hoped it was going to be a Giants vs Colts Superbowl - Manning vs Manning. Then I entertained, and still hope for, a Vikings vs Colts Superbowl, but after watching New Orleans trounce New England, I have to wonder. A Saints vs Colts Superbowl? Hmm? The unpredictability of a new NFL season - one never knows. The cream of the crop curdles, an underdog reigns supreme, coaches come and go, the young take over, the vets never cease to amaze, and cease to amaze, rookies rise and fall, stars are born and others diffused - all in a day's work. Laughter, tears, crumpled brows, bones and egos, and the glue of comaraderie - ah, the beauty of meritocracy.
Oh, and in answer to some dude's question that for some reason won't post on my comments:
Unicorns can't be bought - they're earned!
Showing posts with label NFL. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NFL. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Wizard and the General
There are many great moments in the NFL that stick in my mind. Mind blowing plays, unfathomable feats performed by the wonders of the sport like Favre, Brady, Manning, Breeze, the other Manning, Moss, Hester, Polamalu, Harris, Sproles, Wayne, Ward, Clark, and on and on and on. Last Sunday's Patriots/Colts game was a beauty unto itself - ah, thanks for the memories.
I was nervous days in advance. The Colts were undefeated and the Patriots are the Patriots. They live for games like this - the two Super Powers of the NFL - but one of them has to lose. What a match up - there was something very Roman about it all. The two best quarterbacks in the league head to head - I was dying.
To me, Brady is like an army general leading his troops to war - an all out soldier, competitive, driven, merciless. He marches into the face of the enemy - unflinching and his troops respond to his lead. In that zone, he can and will annihilate the opponent. The tougher the competition the better Tom Brady is. And he proved it up until the last few plays of that brilliant Sunday night game against the Colts. But I never, for one second, doubted that the Colts were going to win that game. All the braun in the world cannot match a wizard's magic.
Peyton Manning is a wizard, a sorcerer, a magician - other worldly - a sage. It may sound over-the-top - so be it, call a spade a spade and all the other cliches. But there is noone else who can watch his team unravel before him, even allow it, want it to happen to expose the weakness, to learn the weakness, then fix it there and then, completely sew the team back up again, make it stronger and better while playing one of the best and toughest teams in the NFL. Then predetermine the exact time he is going take the game back and win it. With 13 seconds left on the play clock, Manning throws an unbelievable pass through the solid coverage into the waiting hands of Reggie Wayne.
Victory.
Magic.
How Reggie Wayne made that catch was mind blowing but that's Reggie Wayne and that's Peyton Manning - After the game, with the Wizard proudly towering over him, Wayne matter-of-factly said,"when Peyton called my number, I knew I had to make that catch." I don't know if I would ever want to be in that position, if I would ever want Peyton Manning calling my number on the last play of a supremely important game with a mere 13 seconds left on the clock.
On the sidelines, The General's face said it all. And the experts and the fans can blame the Patriot's loss on a great and risky call by Belichick, but no matter what the Patriots did in those last few moments of that monumental game - the Colts weren't going to lose. They were never going to lose. They knew it. Peyton knew it and I think Belichick new it too. How can a mortal, even great ones at that, ever beat a Wizard?
I was nervous days in advance. The Colts were undefeated and the Patriots are the Patriots. They live for games like this - the two Super Powers of the NFL - but one of them has to lose. What a match up - there was something very Roman about it all. The two best quarterbacks in the league head to head - I was dying.
To me, Brady is like an army general leading his troops to war - an all out soldier, competitive, driven, merciless. He marches into the face of the enemy - unflinching and his troops respond to his lead. In that zone, he can and will annihilate the opponent. The tougher the competition the better Tom Brady is. And he proved it up until the last few plays of that brilliant Sunday night game against the Colts. But I never, for one second, doubted that the Colts were going to win that game. All the braun in the world cannot match a wizard's magic.
Peyton Manning is a wizard, a sorcerer, a magician - other worldly - a sage. It may sound over-the-top - so be it, call a spade a spade and all the other cliches. But there is noone else who can watch his team unravel before him, even allow it, want it to happen to expose the weakness, to learn the weakness, then fix it there and then, completely sew the team back up again, make it stronger and better while playing one of the best and toughest teams in the NFL. Then predetermine the exact time he is going take the game back and win it. With 13 seconds left on the play clock, Manning throws an unbelievable pass through the solid coverage into the waiting hands of Reggie Wayne.
Victory.
Magic.
How Reggie Wayne made that catch was mind blowing but that's Reggie Wayne and that's Peyton Manning - After the game, with the Wizard proudly towering over him, Wayne matter-of-factly said,"when Peyton called my number, I knew I had to make that catch." I don't know if I would ever want to be in that position, if I would ever want Peyton Manning calling my number on the last play of a supremely important game with a mere 13 seconds left on the clock.
On the sidelines, The General's face said it all. And the experts and the fans can blame the Patriot's loss on a great and risky call by Belichick, but no matter what the Patriots did in those last few moments of that monumental game - the Colts weren't going to lose. They were never going to lose. They knew it. Peyton knew it and I think Belichick new it too. How can a mortal, even great ones at that, ever beat a Wizard?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Fantasies dashed
When fantasy turns to nightmare, one must ask themselves, why? Why do I do this to myself? At the start of every NFL season I say, Alexandra, just watch the games, don't bet on them, don't join a football pool, a fantasy league. On Sundays get up, crack open a beer, don your Colts toque, grab a bag of Louisiana hot sauce chips, and enjoy the next 12 hours of your life - relish in Sunday football. But no - I joined a fantasy league and as much as part of me enjoys it, the fact that I'm losing sucks. I hate to lose. Once in a while it's okay - weekly, no. That is why I don't play golf. If I can't be consistently good at something - forget it. Especially when the outcome is out of my hands. I can't call Lendale White and Santana Moss into my office and give them a talking to. I can't stand in front of Eli Manning. look him in the eye and shrug. I can't throttle my Tennessee defense when they lose points for my fantasy team Turf Dogs and I can't change bye weeks. So I ask you - why? Why do I subject myself to fantasy football? Because a pure sports enthusiast loves the goddamn challenge and if you like football, NFL style, you gotta enjoy a little bit of pain.
Speaking of pain - I can't tell you how disappointed I am that Canada's men's national soccer team did not qualify for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. Well, I can tell you how disappointed I am but you'll have to read it from my Toro column Sports Extras - here's the link - http://www.toromagazine.com/?q=node/794
Four days till Sunday - think I'll get a Proline!
Speaking of pain - I can't tell you how disappointed I am that Canada's men's national soccer team did not qualify for the 2010 World Cup in South Africa. Well, I can tell you how disappointed I am but you'll have to read it from my Toro column Sports Extras - here's the link - http://www.toromagazine.com/?q=node/794
Four days till Sunday - think I'll get a Proline!
Monday, January 28, 2008
Jonesing
I'm not the type of person who gets bored. Although at times I do get lost. This Sunday was one of those times. I was lost. Jonesing for football. It was the first Sunday without the NFL and I didn't know what to do with myself, couldn't concentrate. Watched a bit of the Sheffield vs Man City soccer game, but I couldn't get into it. Even Tiger Woods' stellar final round didn't satisfy me. I missed my friends. It's funny how that's what they become those football players, friends.
To occupy myself in the evening, I opened a bottle of Australian Shiraz and watched the Actor's Guild Awards. Now, I stopped watching the Oscars along time ago because they make me ill. Last night's award show was actually quite refreshing. It was laid back, the actors were more natural, not so much bling and over-the-top makeup and gowns. They were more real, likable, funny and moving. There were some great actors recognized and given awards for commendable performances, and the speeches were brief and human-like. Javier Bardem and Daniel Day Lewis stole the stage. Lewis's moving homage to Heath Ledger silenced the entire room. I wondered if anyone was left breathing. It was very cool to see these celebrities in that light, especially these days when the idea of 'celebrity' is so out of control. Last night, I really felt that those awards were being given for art, not politics or mere looks. It wasn't football but it was dramatic and entertaining all the same!
To occupy myself in the evening, I opened a bottle of Australian Shiraz and watched the Actor's Guild Awards. Now, I stopped watching the Oscars along time ago because they make me ill. Last night's award show was actually quite refreshing. It was laid back, the actors were more natural, not so much bling and over-the-top makeup and gowns. They were more real, likable, funny and moving. There were some great actors recognized and given awards for commendable performances, and the speeches were brief and human-like. Javier Bardem and Daniel Day Lewis stole the stage. Lewis's moving homage to Heath Ledger silenced the entire room. I wondered if anyone was left breathing. It was very cool to see these celebrities in that light, especially these days when the idea of 'celebrity' is so out of control. Last night, I really felt that those awards were being given for art, not politics or mere looks. It wasn't football but it was dramatic and entertaining all the same!
Friday, November 30, 2007
The Bird of Prey
Need I say more. There's no other cornerback like Green Bay's Al Harris. For years I've been drawn to Green Bay for the legend of Vince Lombardi, its heart and soul Brett Favre and the killer instinct of Al Harris. For a few years it seemed like there were only two players on Green Bay. On the offence Favre and on defence Al Harris. Now both key players have a team and Harris is as lethal and driven as ever. The guy never stops moving. Never misses a beat. Like he has eyes in the back of his head, he swoops in on his kill when he's out of their range and he's on them when they're out of his range. He creates big plays out of nowhere. In last night's game against Dallas, he was everywhere that he could be. Lurching, stretching, flying through, over and above the likes of T.O. and the rest of the Cowboys stellar offensive weapons. Even losing Favre didn't rattle this team's constitution, they are a team, one for all and all for one and Aaron Rodgers proved his strength. Comforting to know they've got a QB in the wings who can really play. But the man on the field that never stops working, scoping, attacking for a second, like a hungry falcon, Mr. Al Harris. Lethal.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Brady Trail
As my mother and I drove past Buffalo yesterday, I felt an incredible force. Inexplicable, almost like I imagine standing upon an empty battlefield feels. Long after the fighting is over, the impact of the battle remains. Then it hit me and I said to my mum, "The Patriots were here on Sunday." Like she knew exactly what I meant she said, "Oh my, how did that go." "Not good," I said. "Not good." She shook her head, "Poor Buffalo," she said. We went quiet, the sky darkened and it began to rain.
Now as a huge Indy fan, I don't like to harp on too much about how frighteningly good the New England Patriots are this season. How when Brady steps onto the field he is Robocop meets the Six Million Dollar Man, his arm flinging the ball like that arm was made of steel and his receivers, or whoever catches the ball, are magnetic. The ball soars directly into their guts, all they have to do is wrap their hands around it. Frightening. And it makes me sick when I hear certain analysts, mainly Canadians, say the Patriots should have stopped scoring, let up on poor ol' Buffalo. Jesus, what professional football player or coach in their right mind would say, okay guys, I think we've scored enough points, lets drop a few balls, throw a few interceptions, put the Gatorade boy in as QB. If Buffalo were up 56-10, would they quit doing well, just so New England could feel a little better?
In a Brooklyn hair salon last week, I flipped through gossip magazines while my sister had her hair flat-ironed. I filled her and the hairdresser in on all the latest gossip. Heath Ledger left Michelle Williams for ex-supermodel Helena Christianson. No! they said. Oh yes, I said. And other sundry shite. Then I said, Oh no! Tom Brady was spotted arguing with his supermodel girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in a Boston Starbucks. In unison, Lily and the hairdresser said, Whose Tom Brady?! I was shocked! The quarterback for the New England Patriots, I said. Oh, they said and asked if Brad Pitt's really leaving Angela Jolie. I shook my head and continued to read about how poor Brady's struggling to keep his high-maintenance supermodel girlfriend happy while longing to be with his son who lives in L.A. with his ex, actress Bridget Moynahan. Most men would be wrecked by such a tumultuous personal life; the kid, the ex, the supermodel girlfriend who dumped her Victoria's Secret contract to spend more time with her best-quarter-back-ever-in-the-history-of-the- NFL boyfriend (so say the experts), but not Tom Brady. He wraps up every minute detail of his troubled personal life and he packs it into that silver and blue uniform each week and he goes out there and he whips it and whips it and whips it into the end zone, time after time after time and he doesn't stop until the game's over and he trudges off the field like the warrior he is, goes back to his personal life and fuels up for the next game. I closed the magazine and nodded my head - so that's how the bastard does it, get all messed up with a couple of dames, get all amped-up over it then let that frustration out on the football field and rock the NFL's world - very clever.
My mother's tender voice shook me from my reverie. "How's Peyton doing?" she asked. "Okay," I said. "They've lost a couple of key players." When I looked back into the rear view mirror, I slowly felt the Brady Trail disappearing like the Buffalo skyline as it was swallowed by clouds.
Now as a huge Indy fan, I don't like to harp on too much about how frighteningly good the New England Patriots are this season. How when Brady steps onto the field he is Robocop meets the Six Million Dollar Man, his arm flinging the ball like that arm was made of steel and his receivers, or whoever catches the ball, are magnetic. The ball soars directly into their guts, all they have to do is wrap their hands around it. Frightening. And it makes me sick when I hear certain analysts, mainly Canadians, say the Patriots should have stopped scoring, let up on poor ol' Buffalo. Jesus, what professional football player or coach in their right mind would say, okay guys, I think we've scored enough points, lets drop a few balls, throw a few interceptions, put the Gatorade boy in as QB. If Buffalo were up 56-10, would they quit doing well, just so New England could feel a little better?
In a Brooklyn hair salon last week, I flipped through gossip magazines while my sister had her hair flat-ironed. I filled her and the hairdresser in on all the latest gossip. Heath Ledger left Michelle Williams for ex-supermodel Helena Christianson. No! they said. Oh yes, I said. And other sundry shite. Then I said, Oh no! Tom Brady was spotted arguing with his supermodel girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in a Boston Starbucks. In unison, Lily and the hairdresser said, Whose Tom Brady?! I was shocked! The quarterback for the New England Patriots, I said. Oh, they said and asked if Brad Pitt's really leaving Angela Jolie. I shook my head and continued to read about how poor Brady's struggling to keep his high-maintenance supermodel girlfriend happy while longing to be with his son who lives in L.A. with his ex, actress Bridget Moynahan. Most men would be wrecked by such a tumultuous personal life; the kid, the ex, the supermodel girlfriend who dumped her Victoria's Secret contract to spend more time with her best-quarter-back-ever-in-the-history-of-the- NFL boyfriend (so say the experts), but not Tom Brady. He wraps up every minute detail of his troubled personal life and he packs it into that silver and blue uniform each week and he goes out there and he whips it and whips it and whips it into the end zone, time after time after time and he doesn't stop until the game's over and he trudges off the field like the warrior he is, goes back to his personal life and fuels up for the next game. I closed the magazine and nodded my head - so that's how the bastard does it, get all messed up with a couple of dames, get all amped-up over it then let that frustration out on the football field and rock the NFL's world - very clever.
My mother's tender voice shook me from my reverie. "How's Peyton doing?" she asked. "Okay," I said. "They've lost a couple of key players." When I looked back into the rear view mirror, I slowly felt the Brady Trail disappearing like the Buffalo skyline as it was swallowed by clouds.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Draining the Football Pool
I'm not a quitter. A procrastinator, complainer, oh yes, but I don't give up, usually. While travelling last week, incessantly I checked my email for week ten's picks. Saturday night, Sunday morning, still nothing. I arrived home, nothing. I didn't receive last week's picks. Missing a week in a pool is a huge impediment. It's virtually impossible to catch up, unless the gods grant me all my wishes and from here on out I ace every single game including the Superbowl. Impossible. So I withdrew from my football pool. I quit. Not out of spite, or even because I'll never win, but it seemed like the perfect time to shed myself of the unhappiness being in a football pool brings me, the constant disappointment and the inability to watch the games for the game's sake. Today I did that, when the score said Indy 13, KC 10, I didn't think, oh no, they didn't cover the spread. I thought, yay, Indy won. And that happened with every game. I celebrated wins and losses for the pure joy of seeing a team I prefer win or lose. I watched the day's games with the monkey off my back, with emotion, not counting numbers, checking the spreads and my football pool print out. Today, I enjoyed the game of football for what it is and for that I don't mind being a quitter.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Zen and the Art of Football Maintenance
All I have to say is the Colts vs the Patriots. The ultimate match-up, the pre-Superbowl. Manning vs Brady. It makes the hair on my arms stand on end. Makes me think of the movie Gladiators or Braveheart or Apocalypto, great fight scenes, lots of drama, emotion and no matter where one's loyalties lie, someone's going to lose and it's going to be devastating either way. I've been dreaming about it. The Patriots have been extremely lethal this season, slaughtering the Redskins 52-7 last week, the week before that they beat the Dolphins 49-28. Despite the Dolphins self-pity media banter how would they have handled the Redskin's 52-7 defeat or one of the more touted teams, Dallas' 48-27 defeat. It's all relative and for the Patriots it's just another day at the office. Whether the NFL's patching up hurt feelings, broken bones, broken rules or terminations, nothing can change the fact that one of its undefeated superstars is about to lose. Tomorrow it's my team the Patriots are up against and in my dreams I hear warrior drums and everything's in slow motion. Brady strides onto the field in his silver helmet, robocopish stature and sturdy glare. Followed by the thundering cleats of his brilliant teammates and Manning's standing there in all his wizardry and lethal genius, his sly and tricky and equally brilliant teammates at his side and it's like Yoda vs Darth Vader. It's a toss-up whose mental strength and cunning is going to outdo the other. This weekend's game against the two power houses is going to be physically exciting but I think it's going to be the Zen of these two teams that will decide the outcome.
Monday, August 20, 2007
To Bet or Not To Bet...
That is the question.
With the NFL season just around the corner, I'm sitting on the fence - Do I rejoin the football pool, play Proline, both, one or the other, neither? Last year was the first year I joined a pool. I was excited, full of hope. Then found myself on the edge of the couch, fingernails in mouth, desperate to cover the spreads - to win the weekly pool. All in all I discovered it took the pure joy out of watching the games. Week after week, I stressed over the spreads, studied US Today's Friday NFL pages, the weeks I went the other route and simply went with my gut, still I came up short. One week I tied with some guy and we split the winnings. It was not satisfying. I joined a pool to alleviate my previous year's obsession with Proline. Thinking that it would still satisfy a need to compete and be able to really get involved in the season more so than just being a passive yet passionate observer. Proline just about killed me. I'm no stranger to obssessive behavior - it's the highs and lows that feed my craft. However what I discovered about Proline was that the thrill was never realized, no matter how knowledgable I became and I rarely enjoyed the weekend games because I was too concerned with my picks, never letting the little slips of paper out of my sweaty, trembling hands. One Sunday I had to attend a christening. I didn't want to go. Shoved past the burly guys in the Seven-Eleven to grab my pencil and spreads sheet, ignoring their scrutinizing stares and attempts to peek at what I was scribbling down. I arrived late to the christening and during the reception that followed I kept leaving and coming back a little more agitated than the previous time I disappeared. A concerned relative approached with a glass of wine and asked if I was okay. I nodded, grabbed the wine. She leaned close to me and asked if I had taken up smoking. Smoking, I said, God know. And I asked her why. She stepped away from me. Well, you keep on leaving, she said, anxiously, like a smoker. Like a smoker, she said, or worse. Worse, I thought. Downed my wine, then choked, choked because it hit me and the laughter rose up from my gut before I had a chance to swallow the wine and I slapped my knee then her back and she started laughing without knowing why. I'd been leaving to run to the radio in my car to check the football scores, my Proline ticket. I never told her the truth, it may have seemed like the something worse.
This year, I think I'm going straight, no betting. It'll kill me, but I want to get back to observing the purity of what's unfolding on the field. I want to be unaffected by what I think and allow the outcomes not to bring me down. This year I don't want to start my week, which is always Tuesday this time of year, feeling like a loser. Because there's nothing worse than having 9 out of 12 teams correct on a ticket, or lose the weekly pool by 1 to a dame that doesn't even like the sport. This way I can concentrate on the Colts, the progress of other team's new coaches, players, revel in the unpredictable nature of the game, drink my beer and relax.
Next year, I might befriend a psychic.
With the NFL season just around the corner, I'm sitting on the fence - Do I rejoin the football pool, play Proline, both, one or the other, neither? Last year was the first year I joined a pool. I was excited, full of hope. Then found myself on the edge of the couch, fingernails in mouth, desperate to cover the spreads - to win the weekly pool. All in all I discovered it took the pure joy out of watching the games. Week after week, I stressed over the spreads, studied US Today's Friday NFL pages, the weeks I went the other route and simply went with my gut, still I came up short. One week I tied with some guy and we split the winnings. It was not satisfying. I joined a pool to alleviate my previous year's obsession with Proline. Thinking that it would still satisfy a need to compete and be able to really get involved in the season more so than just being a passive yet passionate observer. Proline just about killed me. I'm no stranger to obssessive behavior - it's the highs and lows that feed my craft. However what I discovered about Proline was that the thrill was never realized, no matter how knowledgable I became and I rarely enjoyed the weekend games because I was too concerned with my picks, never letting the little slips of paper out of my sweaty, trembling hands. One Sunday I had to attend a christening. I didn't want to go. Shoved past the burly guys in the Seven-Eleven to grab my pencil and spreads sheet, ignoring their scrutinizing stares and attempts to peek at what I was scribbling down. I arrived late to the christening and during the reception that followed I kept leaving and coming back a little more agitated than the previous time I disappeared. A concerned relative approached with a glass of wine and asked if I was okay. I nodded, grabbed the wine. She leaned close to me and asked if I had taken up smoking. Smoking, I said, God know. And I asked her why. She stepped away from me. Well, you keep on leaving, she said, anxiously, like a smoker. Like a smoker, she said, or worse. Worse, I thought. Downed my wine, then choked, choked because it hit me and the laughter rose up from my gut before I had a chance to swallow the wine and I slapped my knee then her back and she started laughing without knowing why. I'd been leaving to run to the radio in my car to check the football scores, my Proline ticket. I never told her the truth, it may have seemed like the something worse.
This year, I think I'm going straight, no betting. It'll kill me, but I want to get back to observing the purity of what's unfolding on the field. I want to be unaffected by what I think and allow the outcomes not to bring me down. This year I don't want to start my week, which is always Tuesday this time of year, feeling like a loser. Because there's nothing worse than having 9 out of 12 teams correct on a ticket, or lose the weekly pool by 1 to a dame that doesn't even like the sport. This way I can concentrate on the Colts, the progress of other team's new coaches, players, revel in the unpredictable nature of the game, drink my beer and relax.
Next year, I might befriend a psychic.
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