We hate you.

MAGGIE SMASH

Our vision for this Web site is to shows the nation how beautiful and sexy the ladies of Red Sox Nation are. We offer the following analogy: Sexy Sox Girls are to Red Sox Nation as Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issues are to Sports.

The best part - it's democratic. Viewers rate candidates based on a scale of five red socks, with five socks being the creme de la creme. The site also requires applicants to disclose their favorite players, beaches, and bars they patronize. That’s key, as now those viewing the photos will know where to go. And you know they’ve got a chance. There’s always a chance.


Look, far be it from me to criticize what gets other people's rocks off. Hell, I'm the one that tried to explain to you people how a good basebrawl can act as an aphrodesiac. (And it can, my friends. Ohhh, it can.) but this? Makes me six different kinds of angry, and all those kinds are violent.

It's a site. Where women post pictures. Of themselves. Scantily clad. In Red Sox gear. And then they're rated. According to their hotness.

I want to set this site on fire. it's not bad enough that it's a website set up so that insecure women needing to show off their goodies to get the approval of others can post poorly lit images of themselves in allegedly provocative poses. Oh, no. They had to go and bring the Red Sox into it.

Because of course it's not bad enough that if I try to buy a jersey that fits my (ample, thank you) tits and doesn't hang on me like a dress, I'm stuck with some kind of hot pink or powder blue monstrosity. Of course it's not bad enough that I constantly have to defend my knowledge of the game simply as a result of possessing said tits. No, no. Now, chicks in baseball gear is some kind of messed up excuse for ogling, and I am pissed right the hell off.

Look, I get it. Wanting to be pretty doesn't make you less of a fan. That's fine. I think you're probably kind of nuts for putting on full makeup and straightening your hair to go sit up in the 400 level, but whatever. I don't get it, but I'm not judging.

This? This I'm judging. Look, you want to show your tits off on the internet? Go ahead. Have a party. They're your goodies, do with them as you please. But the second something like this, a 'rate the chick in the Sox jersey' site starts up? The rest of are being dragged in, unwittingly, and some of us want no part in that.

In conclusion: I hate you. And because I'm too mad about this whole stupid site to post a picture generally reflective of the content of this post, you're getting Jonathan Papelbon in a kilt, to make me feel better.

Keep. It. In. Your. Pants. Please.

Question: Does anybody but Maggie care about soccer if I tell you a story about drugs and a trio of tranny prostitutes and a three-time FIFA world footballer of the year? Can I get you to care then?

So yes. Ronaldo (AC Milan, not Man U, sadly) drops his girlfriend off, goes and picks up three hookers, does some drugs, if you believe the hookers, and then flips shit when he discovered that his hookers came with a bonus feature. And I am left laughing my ass off, because...really? Three tranny hookers? I mean, one was enough for Eddie Murphy. (Note: If Cristiano Ronaldo ever gets caught with three tranny hookers, you will hear my whoops of sheer glee from space, because I hate that bastard and I hope he hurts himself in spectacular fashion in just enough time to lose Man U the championship. And I'm an Arsenal supporter, so the fact that I want Chelsea to win? Should say something.)

Look, I know it's no 'Roger Clemens took a FIFTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL to his hotel room the night he met her, but they totally waited until she was legal to have sex. No, seriously. Why are you looking at me like that?' (Which, side note: Euuurrrrrgh. Seriously. I can't even mock it any more, because I am far too fucking grossed out and depressed by the entire thing. Like, where the fuck were her parents? What the fuck was he thinking? And who picks up a fifteen year old girl and takes her to his hotel room? This ain't Thailand, Rog. We have laws against that.)

And hey, speaking of inappropriateness with the youngsters and kicking it up a notch for it being your own daughter, does someone want to explain to me why Hulk Hogan appears to be rubbing sunblock on his own daughter's ass? I just...I quit. I can't do this any more.

My point is, this week has been a bit crazy for athletes that can't keep their dick in their pants. I'd advise noted manwhore Kyle Farnsworth to maybe keep it zipped up while he serves his suspension for nearly beaning Manny Ramirez. Who knows what could happen if that crazy motherfucker got into trouble? I'm guessing it would involve several surface to air missiles, an army of midgets, at least six donkey shows and a trumpet, just for fun.

Here, have a picture of reformed manwhore Pat Burrell. (I say reformed only because he's a newlywed. I don't really believe it.) That's not sweat glinting off his shoulders. That's the funny syphilis.

I read the news today, oh boy ...

If you'd asked any baseball fan this time last year if they believed there was any chance that Roger Clemens would avoid the Hall of Fame, you probably would have gotten a does-not-compute look, even from those who hated him. "Dude," they'd say. "It's fuckin' Clemens. Seven Cy Youngs, over three hundred wins. Are you high? First ballot, no problem."

Now? Clemens is impaled on his own ego like a fish on the end of a harpoon, wriggling desperately, yelling louder and louder in hopes that he can somehow drown out the voices who call him a fraud, a cheater, the voices that hold the growing ring of truth.

Nothing has been proven. Not the steroid use, not the perjury, not the decade-long extramarital affair with a batshit crazy country singer. It's all from unnamed "sources," those who have reason to drag him down to protect themselves. But the Rocket has been red-glaring all over the place, basically screaming "I'm Roger Fucking Clemens, how DARE you say shit like this about me?!" As the cameras rolled in the Congressional hearing room he casually threw his wife, the mother of his four sons all preposterously burdened with names starting with the letter K (strikeout code) under the bus, claiming that she was the one using human growth hormone, not him. And Debbie Clemens, perfectly blonde and groomed and beautiful as only professional athletes' wives can be, smiled blandly as she listened to her husband of twenty-three years trash her, instead of freaking out and giving him a cockpunch like he deserved.

I still remember seeing Roger pitch for the first time in 1986 in Yankee Stadium, being in awe of the screaming fastball, the bad-assed attitude. My friends would tease me about being a Yankees fan but being madly in love with a member of the Boston Red Sox. One of the happiest days of my life was the day he signed with the Yankees for the first time. I didn't delude myself that he was a god who walked among the mortals; I'd heard too many stories about him being an insufferable prick, his "money uber alles" mindset. But to watch him pitch was watching history, knowing I was looking at the best of the best. To see him now, his face lined, his mouth set grimly as he walks past the media, makes me sad. If Congress' case goes through, he stands a better chance of going to prison than the oft-maligned Barry Bonds, the Pete Rose of his era.

Somehow I don't think that was the legacy he wanted to leave.

Ode to April

“April is the cruellest month. . .” declares T.S. Eliot in the opening line of The Waste Land. Mr. Eliot, I presume, was neither a gardener nor a sports fan. April is the best time for both gardening and sports, because there is always hope. Hope that your team plays better than last year. Hope that your team can survive for another game. Hope that the come-from-behind victory can and will happen. Hope that the rabbits don't eat your hostas...again.

So, April, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

1. Baseball. After a long winter, regular-season baseball arrives in at the start of April. Sure, spring training started earlier, but now the rosters are set, the fields are well-groomed, and the games count. And games that count make me happy. It’s a long season, after all. You can never start winning too early.

2. Stanley Cup Playoffs. Despite being a winter sport, the NHL is still going strong in April. The playoffs are, in my opinion, the most exciting part of the long hockey season. Does it get better than two overtime Game 7s on the same day? My answer is: No, especially if both your teams win.

3. NFL Draft. The draft is my absolute favorite thing about the NFL. The first-round hype! The meaningless analysis! The countless tickers on ESPN! Mel Kiper, Jr.’s hair! Also, I love the [useless] combine stats, the unpredicted picks, and the overly-invasive ‘sideline’ reporters. Really, though, the draft appeals to my primal need to organize, categorize, and plan.

4. Soccer. April is always a crazy soccer month. Teams in the English Premier League are either fighting for the top spots or struggling to avoid relegation, which means every match counts for something. All the major European leagues are underway, and the most of South American leagues are in mid-season. Not only that, the quarter-finals of Champions League and the semi-finals of the UEFA Cup take up the mid-week slots. MLS has started, too, but with all the other soccer options...who cares?

5. NBA Playoffs. I’m not usually a basketball fan. The game doesn’t appeal to me, for a variety of reasons, and I don’t pay much attention during the rest of the year. However, April brings the NBA playoffs, and the increased intensity makes the game more exciting somehow. I’m suddenly interested in Steve Nash and Carmelo Anthony, and I can’t seem to tear myself away. I have no explanation.

6. The Masters. The Masters is a Spring rite of passage, and during that week, Augusta is where I want to be [not that they’d let me play—but let’s table that discussion for another time]. The rolling fairways, the trimmed greens, the precarious pin placements in the final round—The Masters is the epitome of golf. And, really, any time Tiger is playing, you might just see magic.

7. Racing. [FYI, I’m not a NASCAR fan. And NASCAR started way back in February, so it totally doesn’t count.] Open-wheel racing begins in late March, making April an exciting time for motorsports. This year, April is a month that matters, with the merger of IndyCar and CART [it’s about time], Danica Patrick’s IndyCar win, and the fact that Formula 1 finally made it to a reasonable time zone. [I know Australia and Malaysia have great tracks, but I need to sleep some time, and F1 doesn’t hit my favorite track until late May, anyway.] Still, race day gives me a thrill. You never know what can happen when you combine very fast machinery and large amounts of testosterone [Ms. Patrick excluded, of course].

Now April is coming to end; three more days and May will be upon us. Seasons will end, teams will lose, and some sports will lose their spring luster. And as sad as I'll be when all that happens, I do need some time to catch up on my gardening.

The epically boring first round of the 2008 NFL Draft is over, and thus ends our liveblogging. I know you all are devastated (or thrilled, depending on whether or not you're a humorless asshole). And now, because that travesty that didn't even feature ONE PERSON I COULD LAUGH AT sucked away four hours of my life that I can never get back, I'm going to go take a nap and waste two more hours of my life that I can never get back.

Liveblogging the NFL Draft with Mags and Lisa, Part IV

Maggie: Aqib Talib is a pothead? I kind of love this.

Lisa: HAHA. REDSKINS GOT PWNED

Maggie: WAIT, WHAT HAPPENED?

Lisa: Aw, Sean Taylor. They just replayed the Pats/Skins game. The 52-7one.

Maggie: Oh. That game was beautiful.

Lisa: Sean Taylor still makes me sad.

Maggie: Well, it's kind of a whole depressing thing. Has it been, like, a half an hour since the last pick, or is it just me?

Lisa: It seems like it. GOD DAMN, QUIT TRADING. Sam Baker looks Amish.

Maggie: What the FUCK is Atlanta doing? GOD DAMN, WHY ARE YOU THROWING PICKS AFTER THIS? Wait, have we seriously not seen any WRs drafted?

Lisa: I do not believe we have, no.

Maggie: THAT? Is deeply strange.

Lisa: This draft is kind of boring.

Maggie: You're just bored because you can't mock Brady Quinn this year.

Lisa: There's NO ONE to mock this year. Very sad. Oh, here we go. This had better not be a trade.

Maggie: For real. I will cut a bitch. Dude, Felix Jones looks like he's forty years old.

Lisa: He does. Perhaps we have another Miguel Tejada on our hands.

Maggie: I think we have to. No way is that guy 23 or under.

Lisa: Perhaps we need to do some investigative journalism.

Maggie: Like what? 'Hey, anyone know how old Felix Jones is?' Oh, hey, Steelers drafted a running back. Sweet.

Lisa: I fell asleep for a minute, this draft is so boring.

Maggie: This is, in fact, boring as shit. How many fucking picks do we have left in the first round.

Lisa: Devin Thomas looks pissed at the world. Eight. What is the purpose of Keyshawn's tie clip?

Maggie: To make my brain bleed. Why is he SHOUTING? And why is his pocket square green? Nothing else in that outfit is even close to green.

Lisa:To match the color of nausea one feels when they see his outfit. And the little checks on his shirt are green. It's GREEN GINGHAM, for God's sake.

Maggie: Okay, they look navy. I have been fooled by the gingham.

Lisa: Does Chris Johnson have gold teeth?

Maggie: Either that, or a terrible dentist. Jesus. Note: Still no Devin Thomas selection. I feel like he might start getting a little mad if they keep putting him on camera.

Lisa: Even I feel bad, and I enjoy other people's misery.

Maggie: Seriously, wasn't he supposed to go, like, fifteen picks ago? Aqib the pothead went before him. And this is officially the dumbest conversation ever on my TV. Drafted wide receivers rarely make an immediate impact? SAY IT AIN'T SO.

Lisa: Seriously, all I hear is 'BLAH BLAH BAL, BLAH!'

Maggie: Oh, poor DeSean Jackson, playing with his phone, like, 'Well, maybe it's broken.'

Lisa: Houston should take him. Wait, LIMAS SWEED? WHAT THE HELL IS WITH THESE NAMES?

Maggie: I have no idea. Dallas takes Mike Jenkins and we STILL haven't drafted a single WR. What the fish?

Lisa: It's an overrated position.

Maggie: Still. Apparently, this is the year of the defensive back. Is it funny or horrifying that Seattle gets Pearl Jam for its music?

Lisa: Horrifying.

Maggie: Which makes it funny. Oh, GOD, this is the longest first round ever.

Lisa: Horrifying is always funny. Unless it's a clown or a tweezer to the eye.

Maggie: Thank you for that eye image. I'm calling you at 3 AM when I can't sleep.

Lisa: I wish the Germ would get traded already. Can you fail a physical because of herpes?

Maggie: No. Just ask Ron Mexico.

Lisa: I think prison physicals are less stringent. Like, they only involve a glove and a finger.

Maggie: Mmm. Smells like romance.

Lisa: Smells like ghetto romance.

Darren McFadden and Felix Jones, or your newest Raider and Cowboy, respectively. Yep. I'm going to get a lot of mileage out of this one.

Liveblogging the Draft with Mags and Lisa, Part III

MaggieI think Chris Berman is mocking Arizona. I think it's awesome.

LisaI hate them all. Dude, that suit.It gets worse with time.

Maggie: I keep hoping it's all been a hallucination brought on by too many hot wings and too much beer.

Lisa: I have had neither, and I can see it.

Maggie: Shit. There goes that dream.

Lisa: Mel Kiper Jr. reminds me of Sam Eagle from the Muppets.

Maggie: Exactly this. Except a little more dweeby. Like Sam Eagle with a pocket protector.

Lisa: Time for Matt Millen's annual fuckup. Which WR shall we take this year?

Maggie: Maybe they'll shock us and do something effective. Maybe the rivers will run red with blood, too.

Lisa:Well, Jon Kitna IS thisclose to Jesus. So it's possible.

Maggie: That's true. They are BFFs. I bet they'd braid each other's hair if Kitna had any. Oh, here we go. What? The Lions drafted Cherilus? Tackle. Well.

Lisa: GODSDER? SERIOUSLY? You should name your first child XOSDER. You know, for Red Sox.

Maggie: I totally should. And then I should name my second one 'My mom is a dumbass.'

Lisa: I like it.

Maggie: Sweet damn, Joe Flacco has one eyebrow.

Lisa: HELLO, UNIBROW. Kyle Boller, watch your butt. I will be as well. ZING!

Oh, Flaccos, you should not be this excited about your son moving to Baltimore. Trust me.

Maggie: How in the hell does UDel have a 1st round QB? This hurts my soul.

Lisa: Did these people have a Ravens hat standing by?

Maggie: I would imagine they bought all of them, just in case. I mean, the kid's about to get paid, it's not like they can't afford it.

Lisa: But...hats are expensive.

Maggie: Kid's about to get PAID.

Lisa: Well, maybe he can afford an eyebrow wax.

Maggie: UGH. Tell me I didn't just hear an Eagles chant. I hate that chant. I hate that chant with every fiber of my dark and twisted soul. And how fucking SHOCKING, Philly gets the 'Rocky' theme as their music. Shut up, all of you.

Lisa: I really hate Ron Jaworski.

Maggie: I'm not allowed to hate him. They kill people for that in Philly. Why do you think we have such a high murder rate? PS: Every one of those Eagles fans have been drunk since Thursday. Aaaaaaaaaaaand they trade the pick. Shocking. What the fuck did we even get for that? I say 'we' like I don't hate the Eagles.

Lisa: You get to suck it, Philly.

Maggie: Oh, the military is on stage. I was wondering what was up with the U!S!A! chant. What's with the guy in the Texas jersey? Does Texas love America more than the rest of us? Wait, what is with that trade? Oh, dear, I think the Eagles just did something vaguely smart. I don't think I can handle this.

You guys. Seriously. The eyebrows.

Liveblogging the Draft with Mags and Lisa, Part II

Lisa: If my internet doesn't stop cutting out I will cut a bitch. Lauren just came in here and said, "What in the fuck is Keyshawn wearing?"

Maggie: That's awesome. Who are they booing? Oh, the Patriots are up. FUCK ALL Y'ALL, HATERS. Wait, we drafted Jerod Mayo? It is going to HURT MY SOUL to root for a dude form Tennessee.

Lisa: Fangirl whore

Maggie: Well, fuck you, too.

Lisa: Not you, dumbass, the actual fangirl whore they just showed clapping her hands.

Maggie: Oh, okay. In that case, I concur. Fuck that dumb bitch.

Lisa: At least she wasn't wearing pink.

Maggie: First person to make a wiseass comment about a black dude playing in Boston gets punched.

Lisa: I never knew until this season that Boston had a racist stigma.

Maggie: Yeah, well. Haters need fuel. Motherfuckers.

Lisa: Jesus Christ, that suit. Looking at Keyshawn's suit must be what people felt like when they first saw the Wizard of Oz in technicolor.

Maggie: I cannot even begin to DEAL with that suit. I also cannot deal with the fact that I just thought to myself 'Self, Steve Young is a good looking man.'

Lisa: But he IS, Mags. There is nothing disturbing about it.

Maggie: Yeah, but it's STEVE YOUNG. I hate the 49ers.

Lisa: He is no longer a 49er. Leodis McKelvin to Buffalo? Leodis? The hell?

Maggie: I don't even know who that is, but Leodis might be my new favorite name ever.

Lisa: It is awesome, I will give you that

Maggie: I DO NOT CARE ABOUT AUTO RACING. DRAFT, FUCKERS, DRAFT. Also, I'm just going to mock those Chicago fans. Seriously, it's a special kind of awesome when your team drafts a brand new tackle with their first pick and the camera cuts to the fans who are all 'Who?' Poor Chris Williams. Oh, look, they're playing the tomahawk chop music for the Chiefs. How deliciously racist.

Jerod Mayo is very happy about getting to play for the Pats. As he should be. Shut up, haters.

Liveblogging the NFL Draft with Mags and Lisa

Maggie: SHIT, I'm sorry, I missed the first three picks. To recap: Booing Jake Long is always required, nobody cares about Chris Long and it was probably kind of dumb of the Falcons to waste that pick on Matt Ryan, right?

Lisa: Sweet shit, Darren McFadden. He's going to be a misfit and a half. Also, re: Miami - I would not call Josh McCown a key addition.

Maggie: I can't believe he went FOURTH. I mean, DARREN MCFADDEN? He's a hot mess.

Lisa: I love it when these guys cry.

Maggie: Jets are up. Also, I think Chad Pennington's family made up that 12% of the poll. 'Do the Jets need to improve their quarterback situation?' 88% yes, 12% no. Who the hell says no there? Who? Well, damn, so Vernon Gholston is going to be a bust, then. Good to know. Shockey get traded yet?

Lisa: Nope. Should be in the next hour or so.

Right about here is where the crowd started booing the Pats pick.

Lisa: HA HA HA HA HA OH man

Maggie: Oh, shut it, ya fuckin' haters.

Lisa: It's not technically hating when they lost. Although it was hating earlier in the season when I was full swing. I want to make out with Michael Smith.

Maggie: Yespls. Immediate-style.

Lisa: TRADE THAT PICK YOU ASSHOLES. I hate Mel Kiper, Jr.

Maggie: I hate his fucking hair. FUCK YES, thank you. Trade that pick. What did we get for that? I missed that.

Lisa: I don't think they mentioned. Boomer just said they don't have details yet. LOL THIS DUDE IS IN EDGEWOOD, MD. GHETTO. Lake Mary is nice though. WHAT IN THE SHIT IS KEYSHAWN WEARING?

Maggie: I KNOW. GODDAMN. MY VIRGIN EYES.

Lisa: IT'S NOT JUST THE TIE, MAN. I mean, wear that shit separately. Not together.

Maggie: It's KEYSHAWN. Are you looking for good fashion choices? KEY. SHAWN.

Lisa: I haven't seen him wear anything too bad. I mean, he's not Michael Irvin.

Maggie: Or Deion Sanders.

Lisa: Jaguars? Traded to get to Derrick Harvey? Jesus.

Maggie:...huh. Kiiiiiinda dumb, Jacksonville. I wonder what they had to give up to jump up that high.

Lisa: He looks like a convict.

Maggie: Probably is. I mean, he played for Florida.

Lisa: Who is that douchebag in the bandana behind him? He looks like Leif Garret.

Maggie: And here I was thinking Richie Sambora. OH MY GOD, JACKSONVILLE, YOU ARE RETARDED. DID YOU GIVE UP EVERY PICK YOU HAVE TO GET TO DERRICK FUCKING HARVEY? I need a beer to deal with this stupidity.

I'd like to do my impression of the Bengals fans currently on my TV upon discovering that they'd just drafted Keith Rivers. Bengals fans: 'Well. Huh.'

Lisa: Way to be lifeless, Bengals fans.

Maggie: Well, it's Cincinnati. What do you expect? I'd be lifeless, too. I'm still busy being horrified at Jacksonville.

Meet Arizona's newest QB, Philly-local-boy-makes-good, Matt Ryan:

SUCK IT, MAN U, AND SUCK IT, SIR ALEX (Soccer Saturday)

Chelsea? 2. (Both scored by Michael Ballack. I am guessing he won't need to buy his own pints around Blues supporters for quite some time after that shiny, shiny game.)

Manchester United? 1. (Scored by Wayne Rooney, my secret soccer sicksadwrong crush.)

Ronaldo? Riding pine for the first 3/4 of the game.

Look, I know nobody cares but Maggie about this shit, but this is the equivalent of the Red Sox making it to game 4 of the World Series, leading 3-0 and deciding that Manny Ramirez needs a day off. It's completely fucking inexplicable.

The frontrunning douchebags that support Man U have got to be absolutely livid. (It's worth noting, speaking of frontrunning douchebags, that the Yankees and Man U signed a ridiculous marketing pact back in 2001. Like attracts like, is all I'm saying.) I mean, a win would have killed Chelsea for the season. Hell, a draw would have put Man U solidly in position for the title.

But no. It was Ronaldo's turn for a day off, and so he sat. Well, he sat until partially through the second half when Ferguson figured out that perhaps he should play the guy that got them to this point and put him in as a replacement for Rooney. Unbelievable. How is there not rioting about this? (Wait, there probably is.)

As I complained about last night, we couldn't really watch the game stateside, so I didn't get to see it. Apparently, Nemenja Vidic was carried off the field after he split his lip in a collision with Didier Drogba's knee. I need to see this footage, people. Need.

I love soccer. It's so fucking violent. Case in point: I just watched Sunderland's Cameron Jones and Middlesbrough's Emanuel Pogatetz (who is now working on his second yellow card in about five minutes) knock heads so hard that I thought Jones was dead for a solid sixty seconds. Jones, for the record, is currently back in the game with a huge bandage wrapped around his head. (Seriously, Pogatetz is just stalking Jones now. It's kind of fucking creepy.)

Anyway, since I hate Man U about sixty times more than I hate Chelsea, let's salute Michael Ballack for his Superman-like performance against the Red Devils. Michael Ballack, I raise my Diet Coke to you, sir.



(I told you people you should watch more soccer. Dude's pretty.)

WHAT THE HELL, FOX SOCCER CHANNEL?

Okay, look, Fox Soccer Channel. I've offered to bear your tiny digital babies before, since you let me roll out of bed every Saturday morning and watch nothing but soccer all day long. EPL, Italian League, MLS, you name it. I can fall asleep watching you and dream of nothing but sweaty men with clearly defined calf muscles running around and shouting.

But seriously, I kind of love you. I mean, I'm an Arsenal supporter, and Lord knows you've fallen all over yourself to provide me with nothing but Arsenal matches all season. This lady's not going to complain.

Here's a question, though. This weekend? Is Chelsea/Manchester United. And it's kind of a Big Fucking Deal. And what are you airing?

Day/Date	Home/Visitor	Kickoff (ET)
Sat./April 26	Sunderland/Middlesbrough	10:00 AM
Sat./April 26	Tottenham/Bolton	12:00 PM*
Sat./April 26	Wigan/Reading	2:00 PM*
Sun./April 27	Everton/Aston Villa	11:00 AM

EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME? The clincher for the Prem is airing and you're going to make me watch Tottenham and Bolton? I...I don't even understand.

Here's the clincher, kids. The title deciding fucking game of the entire Premiere League is getting shuttled off to their secondary cable network. How secondary is the network? So secondary that there are exactly two pubs in the entire Philadelphia region that even carry the fucking channel.

I can't even begin to wrap my brain around this, you guys. This is like the Super Bowl being carried on the NFL Network.

Whatever, have a picture of Wayne Rooney, because at least he's a fucking thug. Note: He's not remotely hot, and I apologize for that, but I kind of love him anyway. Tell no one.

Note: I'm actually hoping for a plane to land on the stadium and take out both teams.

Fangirl Friday

So the whole point of this blog was to talk about how smart bitches know sports and can talk stats with the best of them, right?

Well, mostly. The other point of this blog was to tell the truth about chicks who dig sports, and one of those cold truths? We ogle. Oh, we can rattle off batting averages and ERA and WHIP and yards rushed and goals attempted and shit like that until the cows come home, but when it comes down to it, sometimes a girl just has to check out some soccer calves, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Or you could just look at Cesc Fabregas, now that he's gotten rid of his horrifying mullet. I'm a soccer fangirl. Don't you judge me.



So we're instituting Fangirl Fridays. These are the days when all our principles go out the window and we just ogle the pretty. Sometimes, we'll have a point. (An All-Star Fangirl Friday before the All-Star game, A Frozen Four Fangirl Friday, maybe an NCAA Fangirl Friday that I'll just stare at as it goes by, wondering who in the hell the other ladies are talking about.) Most of the time? It's a free for all. Feel free to suggest your own Fangirl Friday hotties in the comments. We'll try to find you something pretty.

Before we get to the pretty this week, we'd be remiss if we didn't wise the divine Queen E congratulations today. Today, our little baby girl graduates from the finest school in the land (not that I'm biased), the University of Pittsburgh. As a fellow alum, I can tell you that Queen E and I insist that the next time you're in Pittsburgh, you simply must chow down on some Fuel and Fuddle Nachos. (Truly, she's about to learn that those nachos are the first thing you miss when you move out of Souf Oaklin.) Congratulations, Queen E. We're all so very proud of you.

Without further ado, I bring you this week's Friday Fangirl.

First up, we have Queen E's selections.


Michael Beasley sad makes me go "Awwwww," and just wanna rub his broad shoulders and kiss his red head and tell him it'll be okayyy...okay so maybe not that innocent but uhhhh...he's only 19.



I still want to bash Gerald Henderson Junior in the face, but it's a pretty, pretty face. And him getting dunked on is HOTT.




And finally, Terrence Williams has a sleeve. 'Nuff said. Nobody has made me happier the last 2 years when I've seen him in person. He told a drunk girl in the Pitt crowd last year to shush, and then hit a fallaway three pointer. I want his children.





Laser Rocket Arm says:

Here is some Joshua Patrick. Please to be posting him.



Maggie here. Here's a story about Josh Beckett, whom you will find I affectionately call Hot Pockets. Why, you may ask, would I call him Hot Pockets? Well, you see, I was watching the 2007 ALCS with some good friends. (HA. What I mean is that I was sitting on the couch with my laptop on my lap and chatting with some lovely ladies all across this vibrant land. Hi, Ladies of the Cinco Ocho Nacho Mojo.) Anyway, Beckett was dealing, as he does in the postseason, and threw a particularly sexy fastball right across the plate to close out an inning and stalked off the mound while some genius (and I am not being sarcastic in the least- this may have been the best bumper music decision OF ALL TIME) cued up The Pixies' 'Here Comes Your Man.' (Seriously, it may have been the single hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire adult life.) After we managed to stop ourselves from trying to make out with the television, we were listing things he'd have to give us in order to make out with him. 'I'd let him make out with me for a free taco from Taco Bell,' 'I'd let him make out with me for some fries and a cookie' and, finally, 'I'd let him make out with me for a coupon for some Hot Pockets.' Look, it may not seem all that hilarious now, but when you're three glasses of wine down and playoffs-tired, it's fucking hilarious. Thus, I'd make out with Josh Beckett for a coupon for Hot Pockets.

Uh, as you were. Don't judge me.

And, since I already explained to you the inherent hotness of a good baseball fight, I'll let Lisa weigh in with our final Fangirl Friday selection.

You see, Lisa joins me in having a whole lot of seriously sicksadwrong crushes on some diseased thugs simply because we find things out that certain diseased thugs once stiffarm tackled a guy into a coma in high school. (Seriously, that's hot. How is that not hot?)

And then when she finds pictures like the below of certain sicksadwrong crushes (Hi, Shockey. Please get traded so I don't have to feel bad about wanting to make out with you, provided you get a full physical and an okay from three doctors, kthnx.) the logical thing to do is provide all and sundry with a map of her perviness. Y'all, this kind of shit is why we love Lisa.

How the Warriors Broke My Heart

The Golden State Warriors were seen as just another bad team as recently as a few years ago. They missed the playoffs year after year, 12 to be exact. I'd watch them, but mostly as background noise. There were a few seasons where they showed promise, just to fizzle out once again. The head coach position was a revolving door after Don Nelson left.

And then the 2006-2007 season arrived. Don Nelson returned. Chris Mullin came in as GM. Baron Davis was obtained the season before, and he showed flashes of brilliance even though he was injury-plagued. They had Jason Richardson, who was always fun to watch as well as being a fan favorite. Monta Ellis and Andres Biedrich were emerging as young stars. And then, halfway through the season, they traded away Troy Murphy, Ike Diogu, and Mike Dunleavy for "bad boy" Stephen Jackson and Al Harrington. (I was only bummed about Dunleavy leaving because of his sexy arms, but I understood the reasoning).

That trade transformed the team. After a losing streak that prompted Nelson to declare that the team sucked (in so many words), they caught fire. They beat Portland in the final game of the season to sneak into the final playoff spot.

I was just happy that they were decent again. What they did in the first round against Dallas was nothing short of amazing. The "We Believe" shirts, the flat-out beatdown... it was amazing. They fell flat against Utah, but it was okay. It gave Bay Area fans hope. And, as a certain presidential candidate has said, there's nothing false about hope.

Needless to say, the 07-08 season was full of hope, even after Richardson was traded away. It was dashed, though, when they started out 0-6. That was mainly because Jackson was suspended for the first seven games of the season. Once he returned, though, things improved greatly. (There were also grumblings when he was named one of the team captains, but he's behaved himself). They beat almost everybody at least once, except for Detroit and Utah. Baron Davis played every game, and Monta Ellis... is it possible to win the Most Improved Player award two years in a row? He's the best player nobody knows about- he's quick and has a sweet move to the hoop. And, uh, he's kinda cute in that dorky kind of way. (See, queen, I told you I'd hold back on the fangirling :p).

Sadly, they ran out of gas at the end. Denver emerged and took the final spot. Once the Warriors lost to Denver at home, I knew it was over. I screamed and cussed and declared that they were dead to me, but I got over it. Their final record was 47-35, which would've placed them fourth (I think) in the east, but left them out of this absolutely batshit insane western conference. Once they were mathematically eliminated, I turned my attention to baseball, and, at the moment, hockey.

Some have said that this will be the last time we see this team in this formation again. I hope not. They're really fun to watch, and I'm starting to learn more about basketball by doing so. It would be nice, though, if they stopped being so 3-point happy.

And I still want a "We Believe" t-shirt.

ETA:

You ain't seen nothing yet, but show me the money anyway

With the NFL draft bearing down upon us, I am once again reminded of a huge pet peeve of mine that shows no signs of going away and every sign of getting worse—draft picks holding out for more millions on top of guaranteed money. Every year you read or hear about some kid with a hugely inflated sense of self-worth basically extorting a team that in most cases has already made him a millionaire without playing one second of professional sports. Worse, the teams let the players—or, more to the point, their agents—hold them hostage. Every time I see this I swear that I’m going to go in to my boss and said “you know, I’m gonna be awesome, why don’t you just pay me like I already am?”

Since no major league baseball player immediately starts in the big leagues it’s less of an issue, but football and basketball? Stop the freaking madness. Playing sports is a job, and if you’re going to give someone tens of millions of dollars before he even sets foot on a field or court what the hell kind of motivation is he going to have to play well? That’s right—zero. You would think with the amount of times the NFL has been burned on top draft choices—overall the NBA has had more success with their bonus babies—they’d stop and say “hey, maybe we should see what this kid can do before making it rain for him.” Nope. Add in that many times these are young men from bad parts of the world with no sort of life skills, and it’s time to crack the beer and enjoy the train wreck.

Signing bonuses have been around in various sports for half a century, and it’s certainly a team’s prerogative to sweeten the pot with upfront money to gain a coveted player. But if it were up to me, NO rookie would be allowed to hold out. Come in, I’ll pay you the league minimum (in the NFL last year that was $285,000, which ain’t chump change) and you show me what you can do. You play up to your potential, then we’ll start negotiating. Until then STFU, n00b, and go watch game film. And let me bitchslap your greedy agent while I’m at it.

ETA--since graphics are required let us all relive one of the best bits of unintentional comedy ever, colossal draft bust Ryan Leaf flipping out in the Chargers' locker room. At least he didn't hold out.

L-O-L

Diversion of the day:

This is pretty much a quickie here. With the NBA Draft early entry deadline quickly approaching, everyone and their momma is throwing their name into the pool, hoping to get some run with Mickey Mouse in Orlando and a sense if they're wasting their time declaring this year. While some (most?) players are just too dense to realize they need to stay in school another year or 6 (Yes, Derrick Caracter, this means you - though I'm beginning to believe Coach Pitino was one more silly foul away from having your family find your body in a river, so maybe I don't blame ya), most (some?) of these guys are just "testing the waters". I do have plenty to say about nearly every individual who has declared thus far, most of which isn't nice and accuses the NBA of racism, but we'll save that fun for closer to the draft.

Today's excitement involved THE Ohio State awkward big white man Kosta Koufos deciding to "test the draft process". While he is inexplicably projected as a late lotto pick, despite nearly everything about him screaming "STIFF!", I'm hoping the Greek dude returns to THE Ohio State next season just so we can enjoy a frontcourt of TWO awkward big white guys stumbling over one another in the low post when BJ Mullens arrives in Columbus. As Bill Simmons would say, the unintentional comedy factor has a tremendous upside potential.

Anyways, today's musings relate to a fairly broad topic that just had me thinking this evening. Around January, I developed this intense obsession with K-State BBall phenom Michael Beasley. The reasons are endless - the way he crashes the boards, his silky outside J, the way he can play like the 6-10 power forward he is one moment and a 2-guard the next, the ridiculous stats, those pretty sleepy green eyes and that red hair...I'll spare you the rest. Anyways, said obsession led to me spending my work days endlessly Googling and YouTubing Lil' Mike. Great information out there on the youngin' too - he loves interviews, and his dear mama writes a blog about him that sounds more obsessed with him than I do any day of the week.

The common theme in most of the interviews and videos is how goofy of a person he is. In case you've missed out on his oft-told life story, he went to 98 different high schools, and was kicked out of the prestigious basketball factory Oak Hill Academy after his junior season for having a contest with Ty Lawson as to who could autograph the most items of school property (Mike won the contest with his autograph of the principal's car, and subsequently was dismissed). Overall though, he's a good guy...no criminal record, decent grades, not even a notable attitude problem. Essentially, the opposite of O.J. Mayo. But the main point of anything you read or see on him is how he's just a fun, Spongebob-idolizing (We are SO meant to be together), goofy kid who is trying to find a balance between having "too much fun" and becoming a responsible adult representing K-State (and now his soon-to-be NBA team).

So naturally, reporters kind of egg that kid side of him on when they're working with him. Lil' Mike seemingly gets really excited in front of cameras, and basically hams it up to the best of his abilities. He knows he's making people laugh, and even he and his mama said how his joy in life is making others happy. His press conferences are semi-famous, particularly the YouTube staple of "Mike and the iPod". Some K-State student group put together a series of random press conference moments, mainly involving Lil' Mike, displaying their silliness.



Now, for some reason, some people took offense to this, saying that it displayed a poor representation of K-State by its student-athletes. Another group even reposted the same video under the title "Student-athletes disgrace institution of higher learning". Comments throughout the internets assume they're all stoners, or just simply lacking intelligence and class. These guys, particularly Lil' Mike, are acting like clowns, camels, disgraces! Because apparently...being a kid is illegal.

Think back to when you were 18, 19. Maybe you were a freshman in college too. How many mature, serious moments did you have in an average day? How would YOU have acted if a camera was constantly in your face, inviting you to act silly?

I worked with/was tortured by University of Pittsburgh athletics for the last 4 years, where I was subject to way too many men's basketball press conferences. Particularly this past season, Pitt's own freshman phenom DeJuan Blair got a lot of postgame PT because of his monster numbers. And generally, he acted like a fool. He gave semi-serious answers, but he spent the rest of the time laughing, poking at his teammates, and basically...being a 19 year old boy. And the press would roll their eyes, while I tried my hardest not to giggle from the back corner.

For the record, it can be safely assumed that this sort of stuff goes on at EVERY athletic program, and probably most pro teams, unless you're in the NFL where a toenail clipping is fined. Kids act silly, stodgy reporters and prissy university folk roll their eyes and suck their teeth and thank whatever God/gods that THEY are better than that.

However, you don't hear or see these guys cussing out reporters, or telling the world that they're "A FUCKIN' SOULJA!", or making it rain, or whatever. They're not even making fart jokes! They're not doing anything remotely offensive! Are the offended parties at K-State going to take me to a frat party where they are playing an innocent game of Pictionary rather than beer pong, and prove that their university is so esteemed that some post game jokes are a threat to their well-being?

Now, I could flip this, and say that the media is exploiting these young black men in a "Bamboozled"-kinda way, encouraging them to act like clowns to perpetuate the overall image of them as lowly stupid people not meant to do anything but run, jump, and rhyme, but even my political ass isn't that crazy. I see it as it is - children being children. And you know what? I laugh. It's cute. Stupid, but cute. Maybe I'm a bit biased towards Lil' Mike, but hell, I'm telling you I found DeJuan's antics amusing, and I hate Pitt with every fiber of my being.

Then again, you're reading the words of a woman who sang "The Wheels on the Bus..." at the top of her lungs while waiting for the 71A this evening, so maybe my judgment is wacky. Regardless...I feel like people aim to target flaws in all young athletes, assuming these are all awful people who we shouldn't let our children see. And when you're not Pacman Jones, I guess you get chastised for your sense of humor. Chad Johnson (Prior to the contract bitching) was an amazing example of this ludicrousness - the guy really never did a damn thing wrong, but the world seemingly hated him for making checklists of cornerbacks and racing horses. And this logic might even be more amusing than the stupid media moments.

So really people - stop chastising the kids. Embrace your days of youth, current or past. Save the hatin' for the people who earn it by their actual disgraceful actions. I'm sure Pacman will F up sometime soon to give you something worthwhile to criticize.

Until then...continue to judge. But don't lie, you just wish you were part of this happy fun good time.

Bitches get stitches.

There's one thing you should probably all know about me, right from the outset. I'm a short Irish girl prone to outbursts and acting up. As such, one of the great joys in my life is a good, old fashioned basebrawl.

The great Yankees/Red Sox throwdown of 2003?



I laughed, clapped my hands in glee and threw haymakers from the couch in support, because I'm awesome like that. I thought it was going to be the best five minutes of my entire life.

Until this happened.



And it happened the day before my birthday and I considered it a birthday present from Jason Varitek, because, really, what could be more awesome than a glove to Alex Rodriguez's face? Nothing, I tell you, nothing.

I even have a sicksaddirtywrong crush on one Kyle Farnsworth (I KNOW. He's got every STD known to man and he's a dumb motherfucker who can't pitch for shit any more but I would do him in a hot second. Don't judge me.) Why?



That. Because that, my friends, is hotness.

So imagine my glee when my doting and very, very patient husband (who just ignores me when I shriek about the relative hotness of punches because he is a kind and loving man) and I went to the Phils/Mets game this Saturday. The blood has been getting ugly between the two teams for a while now. I think it started when the Phils beat the Mets eight straight times and came from behind to take the NL East last season as the Mets performed what can only be described as a glorious and resounding faceplant into second place. It kept going this year, including one game in which Chase Utley was hit no less than four times with the ball (three while batting and one, inexplicably, on the basepath). So we went, expecting a fight. Expecting? Nay. Hoping.

The teams? Not so much. The stands? Ohhhh, the stands, they were glorious. Haymakers, thrown beers, insults, swats, slaps and other assorted violence in full technicolor display. I was in heaven.

Until the last inning, when I saw what may be the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life.

I saw a Philadelphia police officer punch a Mets fan straight in the face.

Now, in his defense, three different security guards had already tried to stop the completely epic brawl going on in the stands (a fight so fantastic that every one of the players and coaches on the field stopped what they were doing to stare at the scuffle) and the guys just kept going. When it reached the point that said Mets fan was kicking another guy in the head, law enforcement showed up, fists ablaze.

Naturally, I immediately texted every single person I have ever met in my life.

So imagine my joy today when my wonderful and saintly husband emailed me, first thing in the morning with just a link.

That link? Was this one.

Let me just show you a sample of the awesomeness located at that link, courtesy of the readership of The 700 Level, a Philly sports blog that you need in your life like you need air and water and me.



I'm not gonna lie. I'm more than a little turned on right now. (And yes, that picture is now the wallpaper on this computer.)

Bury Me Not in a Pink Hat

I wrote an anti-fangirl manifesto three years ago as one of my first ever sports journalism columns. I came up with the idea while walking down International Blvd in Oakland on a warm May day, heading to an evening of enchiladas and drunkenness at a local kickass Mexican joint.

The names might be dated, but the concept remains the same:

Being a fan means something different to the billions of followers of sports around the globe. When it comes to fans of Major League Baseball, twenty-six World Series titles may have more significance than a decades-long curse finally being broken, and not everyone understands why the Los Angeles Dodgers and San Francisco Giants hate each other so. Ask any fan and you will get a unique and beautiful response to what they think being a fan is all about.

Being a fan is about skimming the box scores from the previous night’s game as you scoot to work. It’s about tacking up your team’s schedule so it’s in plain view. Fans know their team’s telecasters well enough to expect the jokes and references that come up during broadcasts. It’s the smile that comes to your face when you hear a familiar voice calling the games, it’s the aggravation of a losing streak, it’s the jubilation of high-fiving random strangers in the bleachers in celebration of a timely hit.

Fans go to the ballpark for a variety of reasons. There are the hardcore fans who attend every game they can. There are those who go for work outings, or just to get out in the sunshine. Then there are families, Little League teams and Scout troops who take in a day at the yard. But there’s an increasing number of fans out there who don’t belong with any of those groups.

Fangirls are out there, and if you don’t think they’re a problem, you may be unaware of who they are, and where they go wrong. A fangirl is a female sports fan who doesn’t know much about the team or teams she claims to support. Rather than pay attention to stats and trends and team happenings, she can rattle off a player’s height, eye color and favorite band. She could be the lone female in your fantasy league. The one who dropped Randy Johnson to pick up Noah Lowry because she likes the way he looks in those white baseball pants. She may hang around a ballpark just to get an autograph or picture, or she might double as a sports groupie, the true dark side of the fangirl realm. If you need a definition of what a sports groupie is, I regret to inform you that you must be at least this informed to read the column.

They come to the ballpark wearing team attire. Just like the boys, right? Think again. Major League Baseball found a serious cash cow in “feminine” apparel. When the definition of feminine team apparel became discolored cropped jerseys and baseball caps in grotesque shades is beyond the comprehension of many. We’re talking jerseys that don’t look a thing like the jerseys they imitate, from the lettering across the front to the ghastly lime, banana yellow or pink and white fabrics, and the equally confusing pink and baby blue ball caps. The growing appeal of these items can be summarized by a simple assessment of, “it’s cute.” Cute. There’s no cute in baseball. For the record MLB shops do offer replica team jerseys for ladies, just smaller and cut to fit a woman’s body, so at least a woman can wear one of those and not look like a walking marshmallow Peep.

A fangirl shows at the ballpark to get drunk, be loud and obnoxious and show off for horny drunk college males, because watching Suzuki Ichiro go 4 for 4, is like, so boring. Sometimes she wastes time in the bleachers planning the winter formal for her sorority with a few of her sisters while Kerry Wood crafts a gem on the mound. They descend upon the McAfee Coliseum to gawk at the concentration of male pulchritude but can’t tell you how many Gold Glovers are on the field at any time.

A mildly offensive fangirl is one who exhibits knowledge of her team of choice, at least enough to name the members of her starting rotation, but can’t provide fact one about a team or player outside her city. The idea that twenty-nine other teams exist in the league is lost on her. Everyone knows the sun rises and sets behind the Green Monster. Duh.

Alone, or in small groups, these women are harmless. But in the inevitable boys club of sports fandom, narrow-minded perceptions rule. A common assumption among male sports fans is that girls don’t know sports. Or, equally myopic, if she does, she only got into it because of her boyfriend or father. So when a knowledgeable lady comes along who can explain the pitcher of record as well as offer you her thoughts on why American League hitters may have figured out Barry Zito’s curveball, it’s always a shock. Lowered expectations from the aforementioned factors aside, the chick feels a certain satisfaction when she proves she can hold her own. The fact that she has to go to such lengths to gain the respect that’s almost automatic for male sports fans is, in a word, bullshit.

When fangirl behavior is either tolerated or looked down upon, depending on who you encounter, and when surrounded by sherbet-toned jerseys, what does a smart female baseball fan have? She has Barry Bonds, Albert Pujols, Roger Clemens, Carlos Delgado, Carl Crawford and Vladimir Guerrero, and she knows just how great it is to be a baseball fan.

From Zito Fangirl to Zito Hater

When Barry Zito burst onto the scene several years ago, I instantly became a fan. It didn’t matter to me that he was a member of the Oakland Athletics, and that I was a hardcore San Francisco Giants fan. He was hot and possessed an even hotter curveball.

My fangirl feelings had substantially decreased by the time he signed with the Giants. I was very surprised at the size of the contract. Did I think it was too much money? Well, not really, considering mediocre pitchers were getting ridiculous contracts that off-season. I was pretty skeptical about the length, though. Giving a pitcher seven years is very risky.

I happen to be a pessimist, but I tried to remain optimistic about this deal. Zito did not have a good first season with the Giants. He’s prone to slow starts, but his second-half performance didn’t help too much. His final line: 11-13, 4.53 ERA. Those are not stats that you want to see out of your overpaid “ace” of the staff.

Some people gave him the benefit of the doubt, saying that last year was one of adjusting to a new league on a bad team with no offense. That excuse became invalid with this year’s atrocious play. He had an awful spring- before his final spring start, he was 1-3 with an ERA of almost 15. I know spring stats aren’t supposed to count, but you can’t ignore numbers like that. As for the current season, he’s currently 0-4 with a 4.5 ERA. He got booed when he was introduced at the home opener. Granted, he’s gotten no run support this season: three runs total in all four starts. That’s because the Giants save whatever pop they have for Tim Lincecum, Jonathan Sanchez, and even Kevin Correia. (Matt Cain’s lack of support is for a separate post). The worst part about this is all the excuses he spouts every start: he’s getting better, he’s getting a better feel for his pitches, whatever. All he has to say is “I did my job” and he’ll make himself just as hated as Armando Benitez was, if he’s not there already.

Don’t even get me started about who he dates.

I’m sorry, Barry. I know you do good work in the community with Strikeouts for Troops and other things. However, I hate you. You’re not supposed to let Kevin Correia, the fifth starter, outpitch you. Maybe your shitty start is why the Giants are considering a six-man rotation once Noah Lowry (another fangirl favorite) comes back.

As for the fangirl aspect, he shouldn’t be allowed to grow a beard… or wear a wig like this:

Schadenfreude, You Are My Most Loyal Companion

I have but seven true loves in my life. They are as follows:

7. Jeremy Shockey

6. Days which have a high temperature of 60 degrees and under

5. Corn on the cob

4. A well executed public Rickroll

3. New Kids On The Block (make fun of me and I will SMITE YOU)

2. The NFL

1. People getting booed at the Draft

That's right, folks. I take pleasure in these poor fools, most of whom can barely even rent a car, getting humiliated on a national stage. And if the people doing the humiliating are middle-aged drunk bastards wearing face paint? Even better. I mean, it literally took me 5 minutes to stop crying from glee after this gem:

The unfortunate thing about the dark period that begins the first Sunday after the Pro Bowl (you bet you sweet ass I watch it) and ends with the start of mandatory training camp, is that my life becomes a black abyss completely void of all sports, and therefore, joy. Basketball? Wake me up after the playoffs end in roughly 10 years. NASCAR? Hell no. Golf? Only if I'm playing it on a Wii. Baseball? Well, the best description of baseball I ever read was in my most favorite book of all time ever, A Prayer For Owen Meany, in which it was described as "a game with increasingly heightened anticipation of increasingly limited action." Word, John Irving. Word.

But I digress. In order to protect my precious brain from those things which bore the ever-loving shit out of me, I completely stop watching ESPN in the offseason. That, combined with the fact that I could give a rat's ass about college football (unless it's the Longhorns - Hook 'Em!), means that I know virtually NOTHING about this year's draft class. The only player I'm familiar with is Chris Long, and that's just because I wanted to see if his head is as square as his father's (Answer: yes - although if you look here, you will see that it vaguely resembles the state of Ohio).

I'm trying to school myself on the future of the NFL, but I find myself unable to get past this Wikipedia entry on Darren McFadden filed, interestingly, under "Character Concerns":

" McFadden's selection number in the upcoming draft is subject to varying speculation. He has been criticized for possible character concerns that stem from two nightclub altercations and the hiring of a lawyer to handle his paternity problems. McFadden is expecting a potential child later this year, as one of two paternity tests came back negative, with the other test results due sometime in mid-April."

Potential children? Nightclub altercations? If he makes it rain, you can sign me right the hell up for that train wreck.

If we can look past the rankings, value charts, and debates over who is going to be this year's Mike Williams, I think we can all agree that this year we won't see a moment as enjoyable as a crestfallen Brady Quinn seeing his NFL dreams slip quickly out of his grasp, or anything remotely close to being as completely fucking AWESOME as this:

My main concern with this draft isn't who my SUPER BOWL CHAMPION GIANTS (SUCK IT PATRIOTS, SUCK. IT. HARD.) are going to pick up to help them make another run at kicking the shit out of Tom Brady (yes, I know I'm kidding myself here), it's who's going to get booed. I don't know about you people, but I'm hoping it's Mel Kiper, Jr. Perhaps the concentrated ire directed straight at his dome piece will finally be enough to get his hair to deflate. C'mon Saturday!

A Public Service Announcement

Before we get down to business, a random digression (which is pretty much my life - a series of random digressions where nothing ever actually gets accomplished - so expect all posts by moi to start this way):

Ms. Lauren's earlier post waxing poetic about the joys of watching Penn State football players get arrested while Joe Pa eats his prunes on the sidelines reminded me of my favorite spring football nugget from this past weekend (the big weekend for the intrasquad scrimmages, in case you were living under a rock or don't have NFL Network and missed out on the joys of Dave Wannstache doing color commentary during P-I-T-T LET'S GO PITT's Blue/Gold game - BTW, it was the most efficient Pitt has played since he took over for Walt Harris three years ago, so I think this MIGHT be a key to a winning season for the Panthers):

Final score of the K-State Wildcats scrimmage: 3-0

Yes, 3-0.

For comparision, Pitt's was 60-25. The Not-Much-Fighting-Last-Season Irish had a 47-46 thriller. LSU beat Ohio State - uh, nevermind, the 2nd string - 38-10. The list goes on. Point is, most spring games garner shitloads of points.

K-State put up 3 total points. And they came in the final quarter. Has there ever been a scoreless OT spring game? We need Stat Boy on this one.

Now, I don't know much about K-State football. I honestly didn't even know Kansas State existed until Bob Huggins showed up there in 2006 (coincidentally, neither did he). I only started following K-State football by default - visiting K-State blogs daily to read about/internet stalk/swoon over Michael Beasley, you end up finding some other weird shit. But I know enough to say that there is no way that I can be convinced that a 3-0 final displays their defensive prowess. If they gave up 30 ppg last season, unless they had a helluva defensive recruiting class (not likely - most of their newcomers are JuCo transfers and farmers), there's a good chance their defense hasn't improved much. And I know enough to understand that in football, you gotta score points. Particularly when half your schedule involves teams in Texas and Nebraska. So unless K-State has some new defensive tactics that the Big 12 just ain't ready for...they're in for a long, long year in the Little Apple. I'd say you have basketball season to look forward to, but Jake Pullen advised Lil' Mike to go to the NBA.

Anyways, that being said, tomorrow is the big exciting Primary election day in the great state of PA, where both Maggie and I hail from. Despite not actually living in PA, I'm too lazy to change my residency to Maryland, so I'm included in this fun. And if you live in PA, or are just as lazy as me, you need to be in on it too. As P-Diddy once said...VOTE OR DIE! I can go on about the seriousness of voting, particularly in this presidential election, but if the last 8 years of presidency haven't informed you of this, then maybe you shouldn't be living. I kid. Sorta.

We here at Real Bitches are decidedly biased towards our main man Barry. Oh yes, we're smart girls, so we were caught up in his fine policies and ideals before the hype of his speeches and debates swept the rest of his supporters up. Plus we don't believe in voting for people just because they also have vaginas (which, at this point with Miss Clinton, is questionable). But honestly, what makes Obamarama so appealing?

He's a killer on the basketball court! If you missed HBO's "Real Sports" segment, shame on you. Go On-Demand or YouTube it instantly. Barry played a mean game of pickup ball, dropping some sweet dimes down low, a couple smooth outside jumpers, and the game winning lay-in. His game is Jason Kidd-esque - don't count on him to hit a shot outside always, but he can do plenty else. He claims to have a sick drive to the left. I want to see my man hit Rucker Park this summer on (hopefully) his campaign tour, then we'll see if the trash-talking really holds.

I'm not the type to force a candidate on you if you're still undecided...but really, every great team needs a great point guard (see my last post about CP3 and the Hornets), and I don't know who else I'd want throwing an assist to me. Ponder that before you enter the election booth tomorrow.

The evolution of a rivalry

A few days ago on a cool drizzly Boston evening, a friend and I headed up to Fenway Park to take in that most holy of spring rituals, the first game of the year between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. The rivalry between these two teams and their fans is possibly the most well-documented in sports. When I was a kid in the late 1970s, going to a Yankees/Sox game always carried an exciting undercurrent of possible violence which often erupted into actual violence. If you went to a game at Yankees Stadium, announcer Bob Sheppard’s stentorian tones would be drowned out by fifty thousand people chanting BOSTON SUCKS. Anyone unfortunate enough to be caught wearing Sox gear usually got bathed in thrown beer and some other fluids. People would bet on how many fistfights would erupt during the game. One would hear some of the filthiest, most inventive and therefore hilarious heckling ever. When I went to my first game at Fenway, I found much the same atmosphere, only this time I was on the receiving end of the “Yankees suck” chants and the Budweiser baptisms. Each side genuinely enjoyed abusing the other, and since we liked to be creative in our abuse each team knew the other well. My finest moment was wearing a Bucky Dent jersey into Fenway, back when he was still referred to as Bucky Fucking Dent. It is a testament to the knowledge of Sox fans that all that was on the back of my jersey was a number … but the cries of shock and outrage were the same as if his picture had been there.

For a long time, we Yankees fans had the upper hand. Any time Sox fans started giving us shit, a simple chant of “19-18” or “Buck-ner” would shut up even the most obnoxious taunter. In the 1990s when the Yankees were racking up the World Series, the Sox fans started getting quieter and quieter.

Then came the twenty-first century—2004 to be exact. It was the American League Championship Series. The Yankees had laid their customary whaling upon the hapless Red Sox, were leading the series 3-0, up 4-3 in the ninth inning of Game 4, waiting for Mariano Rivera to do what he did so well—shut the game down. But … it didn’t happen. To the horror of Yankees fans and the delirious joy of Sox fans, the Sox came back and won that game. And the next one. And the next one. AND THE NEXT ONE. They went on to win their first World Series in eighty-six years as Yankees fans reeled in disbelief. How the hell did this happen?

Four years later, the Red Sox have another World Series under their belts, and when a Yankees fan enters Fenway Park now it seems that having “the Curse” off has mellowed Sox fans out quite a bit. Seriously, I was in Fenway for nearly an hour before I heard my first “Yankees suck.” In previous trips I would have heard it within two seconds of me getting out of the car. Oh, sure, A-Rod got booed like Osama bin Laden showing up at a revival and there were scattered “Yankees suck” chants as well as “BAL-CO” whenever Jason Giambi came up to hit and for some reason Jorge Posada got “Posada smells like pee” yelled at him a lot but other than that? It was just people cheering on the Red Sox. No fights. No calling a player’s mother names you wouldn’t call your worst enemy in a drunken bar fight. I actually had to explain to a Sox fan sitting next to me why wearing a Bucky Dent jersey would cause trouble (with success comes bandwagoners). Of course, it’s nice to go to a baseball game in your rival’s stadium wearing your team’s swag without worrying about possible bodily harm, but hearing Yankees fans chatting pleasantly with Sox fans, the Sox fan saying that Robinson Cano looks like the real deal and the Yankees fan acknowledging the lights-out home run swing of Manny Ramirez … that would have never happened twenty years ago or even ten. The Sox fan would have said the best part of Cano dripped down his father’s leg and the Yankees fan would have retorted that Ramirez’s mother was a disease-ridden whore.

But let me offer the most disturbing example of this new-found complacency—the day after the game I walked around Harvard Square on a bright sunny afternoon. On my head was my customary Yankees cap … but I wore the uniform t-shirt of Sox pitcher Josh Beckett. I walked around for a couple hours in this ensemble which in the eighties would have had gotten me beaten by both sides. Only one person out of the thousands I encountered said something. And what was said was “I like Beckett too.” And he was wearing a Yankees cap. I think in the Bible this was followed by a plague of locusts. It doesn’t help that … well, right now the Yankees are kind of boring. There’s no real personalities on the team, no Lou Piniella, no Reggie Jackson. The Sox, however, are loaded with personalities which makes them hard to dislike. I still yell “motherfucker” at Manny Ramirez when he takes one deep off Mike Mussina, but it’s an affectionate “motherfucker” now. The Yankees have never been about having fun. Winning is serious business. Maybe if they man-hugged in the dugout or took the piss out of each other in front of cameras—or even pretended they like each other—it would do them some good. I have hope.

To cement Meghan’s theory that Jonathan Papelbon is indeed insane, I present a video from last summer in which Papelbon gives Josh Beckett shit for “using words you can’t spell.” Dammit, it’s getting really hard to hate these guys …

Objectifying pitchers is the reason New England started the Revolution

Or at least that's what I'm choosing to believe.

It's Patriot's Day up in Massachusetts, which means that thousands of schoolchildren are learning that the only reason for a day off school in April is a ridiculously early Red Sox game. Oh, and there's some marathon or something, too.


Anyway, the Sox are on the mound, Manny's inexplicably out of the lineup again (which is going to MURDER my fantasy team, for the record) and apparently there's some killer death flu going on in the clubhouse and Kason Gabbard is currently no hitting the Sox (man, I hope that works).

So here. Have a little evidence as to why you should always, always objectify the pitcher.

Chicks Dig the Long Ball

First off, in the interest of full disclosure, I only understood about three words in The Queen E's post below, and two of them were 'the' and 'Philly.' In my defense, I'm borderline retarded when it comes to basketball. I can tell you that it's probably pretty awesome that the Celtics are doing so well, but I'm not sure I'd be able to name more than three guys on the team. Seriously, she starts talking to me about jump shots and point guards and my eyes glaze over and I have to tell some dick jokes just to keep myself awake. I'm all class.

Even if I did understand basketball? I probably wouldn't care, because it's baseball season, and baseball ate my life. Outside of a wacky Man City/Portsmouth match this morning in which Man City inexplicably scored twice in about thirty seconds, my firm yet ample Irish ass has been ensconced on the couch watching baseball, the real love of my life, since the time I woke up today. (It's okay. My husband knows. He's fine with the fact that the Other Man in our marriage is actually 30 teams of 25 men each, and wow, that sounds a lot more whorish than it probably should.)

I'm just warning you now, people: If we're going to get into this whole weird relationship where we talk about sports and stats and how I kind of want to put my tongue in Jonathan Papelbon's mouth solely because of his fastball (okay, that's a slight lie, as the fact that the boy is fucking off his rocker doesn't hurt - I dig on the crazy.), you need to know this about me. I'm being kinder to you than I am to most people, gentle reader. I let them find out on their own, and its inevitably terrifying for just about everyone concerned.

So since the Phillies are about to get swept by the Mets by stranding approximately seven hundred men on base and hitting nothing but double play balls and just enough home runs to not completely humiliate me on national TV, let's confront one thing here, and let's just get it out of the way.

I love Chase Utley. Go on. Start mocking me. Yeah, I know this blog is named 'Real Bitches Don't Wear Pink Hats' (and we don't) and I know that Chase Utley is sixteen kinds of dreamy (and he is) and more or less the King of the White Girls here in the old Illadelph (due, I am saddened to assume, mostly to the blue eyes and the dimples and not his willingness to sacrifice his body on any given play and the fact that he once broke his wrist in a game and continued to play, which is incredibly fucking hot if you're me and you're crazy), but I love him. Unabashedly and unashamedly. I'm one of those jackasses with an Utley jersey.

But here's the thing: It took me three years to suck it up and buy that jersey, because every pink hatter who has ever even looked at a baseball game sideways immediately rushed out and bought a pink Utley jersey about two days after he was called up. I always joked that I was going to buy an Utley jersey and cross-stitch a manifesto into it under the letters that 'I own this jersey because he's a fucking fantastic, gritty player who does what it takes to get on base and to keep the opposing team off base, including some of the more ridiculously acrobatic catches that I have ever seen, and he would have given J-Roll a serious run for his MVP money last year had he not had to spend a huge chunk of the season out with a broken damn wrist, so don't judge me, because I probably know more about baseball than you, and yes, that was an E4, so stop complaining about the call, because he has a lot of things, but a great arm isn't always one of them, and no, Pat Burrell actually does not suck, so kindly shut the fuck up.' But you know, I'm lazy and that's a lot of stitching.

So anyway, I didn't want to buy the jersey, because all it meant was that I was going to be relegated to the 'chick at the game with her man' file by any and all who looked at me. And then I woke up and decided, more or less, 'Fuck it.' I've spent the last three Opening Days explaining to morons at the ballpark that no, Jackie Robinson didn't play for the Phillies, every team retired his number, and yes, the pitcher can totally have an error. I've also had to explain that Pat Burrell isn't nearly as terrible as the boo birds continue to think he is, but that Ryan Howard is actually not so awesome of late. So fuck it. I'm a girl who knows baseball like the back of her hand, and I'm going to buy the jersey with my favorite player's name on it. All it means is that I get to shock some morons who think that girls can't know baseball when I open my mouth and rip a strip off them for cracking on Jayson Werth for striking out, like, once. (Yeah, it really sucked that we were stuck with him in center when he was batting an obscene .444, you morons.)

I'd also like to point out that while I was typing the above paragraph, Utley went yard. Again. Against the Mets. Again. So haters? Suck it.

And because I am a terrible, terrible fangirl, I have only now discovered that Chase Utley has a blog, and that it is exactly as humorless and businesslike as one would expect. I adore the man, but he's not exactly a barrel of laughs.

Whatever, have a picture of him and his by-all-accounts-lovely wife saving puppies. (No, seriously.)

Chris Paul Owns Your Soul

Before we get to the meat of this matter, I must make this declaration.

I have bandwagoned the New Orleans/Oklahoma City/Charlotte/Harlem Globetrotting Hornets for the 2008 NBA playoffs. The reasons are semi-irrelevant (The Best Xavier Power Forward Ever; a happy feel-good story for the NO; new blood in the West; getting to yell at Julian Wright; obviously CP3; blah blah blah), but I need to legitimize why I'm not like all the other annoying NBA bandwagoners:

A) 85% of my life from October-April is dedicated to college basketball
B) 14.5% of my life from October-April is dedicated to sleep, being rude, procrastinating, and baking
C) Only the remaining 0.5% is dedicated to the NBA...and this year, that time was spent looking at Memphis Grizzlies box scores (Gotta follow the 2 Philly peers of mine who haven't been shot dead yet!) and shaking my head at Kevin Durant's 95 shot per game average.

So obviously, I have no time to be bothered with the NBA, considering there is a lot more exciting basketball being played by people who generally care about the effort they put forth (unless their name happens to be William Henry Walker or Eric Gordon Junior). However, the NBA playoffs is where we eliminate much of the silliness and see what makes college basketball so beautiful - thus, the perfect time to latch onto a team and enjoy the ride.

So here I am, blissfully enjoying the Game 1 win of my newest fav team over Mark Cuban, spurned by CP3's 24 and 7 in the second half.

And I'm here to tell you that Chris Paul should be the NBA's 2008 MVP, and it isn't because I'm suddenly biased towards the Hornets.

Is yesterday's game the best reason? No, just more proof we'd only be giving the award to Kobe or KG to make up for years of them starring on otherwise average teams (Note: We omit LeBron from all discussions because the Cavs couldn't finish in the top 2 in the JV league)

Maybe we don't pity CP3 enough. I suppose spending your first 2 seasons playing with a displaced traveling circus isn't as bad as 75 straight first round exits and life without Shaq...at least to the general public. I can't get past the fact that the man has yet to have a regular home court since he was a Demon Deacon. Even a sideline reporter could tell you that playing 2 seasons worth of "road" games puts you at a disadvantage to the guys who get their 41 home games.

But you know how there's the ridiculous logic that Kobe's other Shaq-less Laker teams, and many of KG's T-Wolves teams weren't good because of their lackluster teammates? Let's evaluate the great talent surrounding CP3!

David West: Owns whatever part of your soul CP3 doesn't
Peja Stojakovic: Streak shooter who only has a high PPG because he can hit threes

And then...
Tyson Chandler. Jannergo Pargo. Morris Peterson. Bonzi Wells. Hilton Armstrong. Julian Wright. Rasual Butler. Should I even continue?

What do these guys have in common? The answers range from too much hype in college/high school, criminal records, and curly hair. But most importantly, these guys have spent their NBA careers being average to not-that-good.

Yet CP3 made this hapless group of scrubs look better than Kobe and KG's various supporting casts. He's made Tyson Chandler look smart for never attending college! He's resurrected Bonzi Wells' career! He single-handedly rebuilt every home in New Orleans from scratch!

Or he's done what people playing the hardest position in basketball should do - make their teammates better, while making smart decisions on their own. On their own, CP3's averages are pretty amazing - 21 PPG, nearly 12 assists and 3 steals per game. The elevated play of his teammates, all playing the best basketball of their sad ass careers, speaks to his abilities as a point guard. Just watching him for a few moments, you can see he just has what any great athletic point guard has - the ability to crash the lane, collapse defenders, and find his open shooters; careful handling (4.6/1 ASSIST TO TURNOVER RATIO!); pretty passes; etc etc insert stuff every great point guard does.

But what stands out most to me is what he does for himself. Yes, he is the team's leading scorer...and he does it on 48% shooting. He averages three 3pt FG attempts and 5 FT attempts per game. Hell, who else in the league, let alone out of point guards, maximizes the efficiency of their own offense as well as he does? Everyone throws around this term that a player "gets it"...but no really, CP3 GETS IT. He knows his role as a point guard, and he rarely does anything to jeopardize it. He jump starts an overall awesome offense. And when they really need a kick in the ass, like in Game 1 against the Mavs, he gets the right amount of selfishness in him to take over - 15 points in the 3rd quarter to come from behind 12. Oh, and he tacked on 5 assists. He still is a point guard, after all.

The cases are out there for Kobe (sorry, the Lakers wouldn't win the West without getting Gasol) and KG (....but he's playing with 2 potential future HOFers), but the fact is, Chris Paul has done what they never really did with the pile of crap he was handed. And in his first season actually playing in the city his team is affiliated with, he helped them tack on 17 more wins than the previous season, while dominating The Toughest Conference Evar most of the season.

And, the most important fact which hasn't been broken down...he plays on the same team as Julian Wright. Is it any coincidence that the Jayhawks LOST Mr. Wright, gained nothing more, and won the championship? Nothing more needs to be said!

Chris Paul owns your soul. He is your 2008 NBA MVP, and anything less will cause a riot to break out in my little Bmore apartment.



And...GO HORNETS!!