|
|
||
|
: Nervous Nero Home : Evil Twin Theory Home : contact : other writing archives Женская куртка ADIDAS . 1950 mah Epic 4G Touch |
the NFL Wild Card Weekend I originally posted this in three parts on the weblog, but it didn't seem right or fair to leave it there. Pardon the Hunter Thompsonish tone of the piece. It's fun to write like that, though. [1/7/03] Клиника осмотр у гинеколога. СЗАО. It was the kind of weekend where the those of weak will and low constitution were wrung out like bloody towels at a crime scene. Everyone I knew had figured on the Jets to pick on the too-nice-for-prime-time Colts, with their affable but oddly instinctless-under-pressure quarterback Peyton Manning, and the quietly great Marvin Harrison and Edgerrin James, who I would be proud to have over for dinner some time but in the heat of battle they collapse like Michael Jackson's nose. If any two of those three guys develop a finishing move, they'd be lethal, but you knew it wasn't going to happen last Saturday. (Perhaps a trip to that MTV Pro Wrestling Tough Enough camp might be in order.) No, the Jets were a foregone conclusion, especially at home, with the fans frothing in rabid glee at every Colt misstep and hesitation from the opening kickoff, and the ill-named warrior but well prepared understudy, Chad Pennington, slinging footballs across the greasy field like a short order cook working the breakfast rush at the IHOP. His opeydopey look belies a steely fearlessness that is replaced by chips on shoulders of so many other young bucks in the league, chest-thumping would-be Springer guests like Shockey and Sapp, chronic winners who should know better than to think they have some kind of divine right to the winner's circle. The only drama coming from the games on Saturday was whether one of the Colts, any one of them, I can't even name one, was going to get mad enough to take out Lamont Jordan's knee or try and clothesline Lavernues Coles in a fit of rage, changing the tone of the postgame recaps to the choppy revenge storyline. But no, the 6:00 Sportscenter told the tale of Chad's Coronation, the highlights running one after the other on green jerseys scampering up and down the field in some sort of pastoral dream sequence. It was enough to make even I, a Jets fan, wonder if there was any down side that they were choosing to ignore. But there wasn't, and Michael Vick's coronation three hours later held even less drama than the Jets', with the Old School versus New School plotline fizzling and wilting in the wet Wisconsin snow while Brett Favre's eternal body turned into a pumpkin just before the opening kickoff. Vick darted and swooped like Roy Jones, Jr. against some Hungarian tomato can, darting between Packer linemen like flash paper, taking the terrible supporting cast he's been stuck with all year in Atlanta and making lemonade, no, coq au citron with lemon brandy and gilt-edged lemon meringue flambe for dessert. I have never seen a game that was so unexpectedly one sided in my life. By the time everyone I was watching it with realized what was happening, it was over, and there was nothing to do but look at each other, shrug and start drinking in earnest. That night I went to a dance party organized by Lee Sobel, and danced to a Martha and the Muffins record that skipped too much. The go-go dancers were shivering, it was so cold, but I ran into a couple of old music people with whom I was happy to talk about the decline of local civilization, and while I didn't drink enough to really get into the swing of things, I knew there was another full day of football tomorrow, and this week is my birthday, so I suspect I'll have ample opportunity to catch up on all the carousal my aging little heart shall desire. * * * I woke up Sunday morning thinking about how nice it would be to have a hangover. I called a couple of friends looking for a decent brunch partner, but it seems I was the only one who hadn't whooped it up that night. I guess it was the last day of the Holiday party season. I guess. So I figured, okay, I'll just grab a little something, pour a couple of cups of coffee down my throat, and I'll be on my way. Brunch is the greatest meal of all time. If you're having brunch it means you're not in a hurry to get somewhere, so it's a nice leisurely meal you can relax for, engage in discourse or read or eavesdrop, and if it's a good brunch joint (reasonably priced and with decent atmosphere) it can set up the rest of your pleasant Sunday better than any ecstasy trip ever could. A good spicy egg-based thing of your choice, with gallons of coffee and greasy salty toast is the meal I shall have every day when I ascend into heaven to receive my eternal reward. That, in fact, shall be my eternal reward. I got to Jason's place just after the kickoff of the first game. Jason's this comedian friend of mine, a real wacky cat, the kind of guy you wonder what his deal is until you go see him do a one-man stage version of "It's A Wonderful Life" and you get him, and after that everything's okay. Jason's the biggest Giants fan I know, and he was having the guys over (Sharon was going to have a nap and then go off to the library or something and leave us boys to give each other noogies and call each other "Little Dude" like Hulk Hogan does in those hideous commercials). The games themselves were, of course, everything the previous day's games were not; tense, seesaw, flawed, human, full of what-are-they-thinking and did-you-see-that. The five of us that actually showed up all talked about the comedy business, while Lenny Marcus got us all to pull for the Browns, as if any of us really cared about Cleveland, with their whiny fans & the talented loser Tim Couch staring darts from the sidelines at the less talented (but better able to stay healthy) Kelly Holcombe, who spent much of the first half filling the air with footballs like he had a quota. If the Browns had any running game at all, they would have wandered off with the game and hid it on the Steelers like a parent with a present at Christmas. As it was, though, the Browns moved the ball along the ground like they were pushing it with their noses, and the Steelers just stuck with it, and the Steelers' receiving corps was just too big, too surehanded and too strong for the Browns to keep hidden from Tommy Maddox for long. We were bummed, but it was okay. Most of the game the rest of the guys were talking shop about the comedy business, waiting for the main event to begin. The late game began like the dream that Jason and Lenny, a statistician for the Giants by day (I've known Lenny now for years, and this has never come up; you know, for a journalism major, I sure don't ask a lot of questions) had been apparently having made real for all of us to see. Kerry Collins was surgical. Tiki Barber was hitting gaps in the line like greased water, and "The Well-Dressed" Amani "It's Not A" Toomer and Jeremy "Li'l Tarzan" Shockey were hoovering up real estate all over the place. The Giants marched up and down the field in the first half like three year olds at the mall. By halftime, we boys were beside ourselves with glee. At one point, though, Shockey dropped a very catchable pass in the end zone. I had never seen him do that before. I mentioned it to someone as an omen, and I remember it being shrugged off. I do not bring this up for I told you so purposes. But I am all-seeing and all-knowing. Ignore me at your peril. I speak truth, no more and no less. [Halftime: Giants Locker Room.The Giants' collapse was worthy of high opera. Absurdity followed bad call followed screwy bounce, and by the end of the game, when the most talked about play in New York football since Scott Norwood's missed kick cost the Buffalo Bills a Super Bowl a million years ago finally went down, those last six agonizing seconds drifting out of the television toward the five of us, all standing, yelling nnnnooooooooo in slowest motion, there was no point in even protesting the absurdity of it all. The 49ers had gotten up off the mat and beaten the Giants with their own severed limbs, and the destruction was complete. The snapper who screwed up the final play, Trey Junkin, is I'm sure on suicide watch right now, but the rest of the city seems to have quickly and pleasantly switched their allegiances to the still-alive and possibly-favorite Jets, in a way that will never happen in any other sport in this town. (Imagine a Mets fan pulling for the Yankees in the playoffs, or an Islander supporter cheering on the Devils. Never gonna happen.) So I watched two hearts break on the weekend, neither of them mine. I feel ahead of the game. And except for the Giants' loss and the wet snow that covered my bike in caked-on greasy kid stuff, and the fact that I was really looking forward to getting drunk, and the fact that the rest of the world is still a mean place where no one listens to anyone else and evil fights evil on every stage of the world theatre, aside from that, it was a lovely weekend. Thanks for asking. - Tony Hightower |
|