What's going on?
+ The second GOP presidential debate was not the eye-opening train wreck that the first one was. However, at over three hours in length it was an unprecedented marathon of bloviating, one that even I couldn't sit all the way through. Donald Trump did not apologize for remarks made about Carly Fiorina (remorse is not his thing) but the Hewlett-Packard CEO's steely, silent response was golden. The night was about all-or-nothing agendas; there will be no pragmatism for Planned Parenthood or illegal immigrants, but rather the same swift and close-minded platform that most social conservatives have held dear for decades. In the end, this was an 11-way dogfight and the democratic process lost.
+ Go Royals! I am really, truly hoping that our overworked bullpen has just enough left in the tank to make a second straight World Series appearance. The Bears' season is already over, Blackhawks training camp is being overshadowed by the Patrick Kane sexual assault case, and Bulls training camp is two weeks away, so at least I have something to root for.
+ Family Update: My mother is not undergoing surgery for her aortic aneurysm... yet. Apparently, only a handful of doctors are able to perform this type of surgery, but it is treatable and requires certain lifestyle changes (staying active, eating healthy, etc.). Worst-case scenario is, she would have heart surgery twice in one year, and it could be at the Cleveland Clinic two states over. However, at the moment she's taking the doctors' orders and doing just fine.
(492)
Showing posts with label Chicago Blackhawks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago Blackhawks. Show all posts
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Monday, June 29, 2015
The New Titletown
I'm not tired of the winning yet.
Last week, the Chicago Blackhawks beat the Tampa Bay Lightning 2-0 on home ice to clinch their third Stanley Cup title in recent memory. They have not only won just as many championships in six years then they did in the previous eight decades, but they've become the closest thing the NHL has to a dynasty in the post-lockout, salary cap era. In a city largely associated with sports mediocrity, "Da Hawks" have become a bright beacon of hope in a coalmine of futility. There was hardly anything to indicate ten years ago that this could ever happen to these perennial cellar-dwellers. (Of the "Original Six" NHL teams, only the Rangers have won fewer Stanley Cups.)
Unlike the deciding game in 2010 and 2013, I stayed home. I was wary of driving into the city when the nearest interstate drives right up to the stadium, especially in rush hour. It was also raining heavily, and any other plans simply never materialized. After leaving work, I ran a quick errand, took a power nap, than convened with my family to watch game 6 in our living room. It was a rare occasion for all four of us to be watching the same thing on TV, let alone the same TV. Both of my parents were on the mend --Mom had a staph infection, Dad's dizzy spells forced him to go to physical rehab-- and living at home has become more of an obligation than anything else.
Amid a growing mountain of stress, the Blackhawks have become a weird kind of constant in my life. I couldn't care less about the Cubs or White Sox, the Bears are rebuilding, the Bulls are a good team that hit a plateau before ever finding greatness, and the Fire (the soccer team, not the TV show) are all but irrelevant. This city has its problems, but the hockey team almost everyone forgot about a decade ago is not one of them. It's one thing when something once assumed impossible happens, let alone three times. May the good times roll while they last.
GO HAWKS!!!
(484)
Last week, the Chicago Blackhawks beat the Tampa Bay Lightning 2-0 on home ice to clinch their third Stanley Cup title in recent memory. They have not only won just as many championships in six years then they did in the previous eight decades, but they've become the closest thing the NHL has to a dynasty in the post-lockout, salary cap era. In a city largely associated with sports mediocrity, "Da Hawks" have become a bright beacon of hope in a coalmine of futility. There was hardly anything to indicate ten years ago that this could ever happen to these perennial cellar-dwellers. (Of the "Original Six" NHL teams, only the Rangers have won fewer Stanley Cups.)
Unlike the deciding game in 2010 and 2013, I stayed home. I was wary of driving into the city when the nearest interstate drives right up to the stadium, especially in rush hour. It was also raining heavily, and any other plans simply never materialized. After leaving work, I ran a quick errand, took a power nap, than convened with my family to watch game 6 in our living room. It was a rare occasion for all four of us to be watching the same thing on TV, let alone the same TV. Both of my parents were on the mend --Mom had a staph infection, Dad's dizzy spells forced him to go to physical rehab-- and living at home has become more of an obligation than anything else.
Amid a growing mountain of stress, the Blackhawks have become a weird kind of constant in my life. I couldn't care less about the Cubs or White Sox, the Bears are rebuilding, the Bulls are a good team that hit a plateau before ever finding greatness, and the Fire (the soccer team, not the TV show) are all but irrelevant. This city has its problems, but the hockey team almost everyone forgot about a decade ago is not one of them. It's one thing when something once assumed impossible happens, let alone three times. May the good times roll while they last.
GO HAWKS!!!
(484)
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Monday, June 24th
So how did I spend my Game 6?
In my lifetime I've experienced ten* championships between Chicago's five major sports teams; six from the Bulls, one apiece from the Bears and White Sox, and now two from my beloved Blackhawks. (I gave up on the Cubs at age nine and I haven't looked back.) Unlike the previous nine I spent the Hawks' second title in four years in the city, as opposed to my native southwest suburbs. To elaborate:
I watched Game 6 of the 2010 Finals at a restaurant called Cabana Charlie's. My father and I wanted to see the game in a sports bar setting, and with Tilted Kilt and Buffalo Wild Wings packed shoulder to shoulder, we settled on Charlie's. The restaurant itself was a pale imitator of Jimmy Buffett's Cheeseburger in Paradise franchise, with a friendly, palm-tree exterior protecting its soulless, ersatz center. The only TVs were in the bar, and we snagged the last table with a view with 15 minutes before game time.
My family had dined at Cabana Charlie's once or twice before; the burgers were adequate but somewhat overpriced. It was never as loud or energetic, however as it was that magical night in June 2010. The bar erupted for every Hawks goal and fell silent for every Flyers lamp-lighter. I recall the confused jubilance as Patrick Kane slipped it past Michael Leighton in overtime; the buzzer went off, we cheered, but nobody could tell what happened. The replay confirmed our greatest hopes, and when the Stanley Cup was carried onto the ice about a third of the bar (including myself) cried.
Fast forward to June 2013. I had never been anywhere near the mayhem that accompanies a Chicago sports title. The Bulls riots in the early '90s made national news, but that would be the most extreme example. I stormed the north quad at Illinois State when the Bears won the 2006 NFC title, but it didn't compare to the full-fledged White Sox riot from 15 months earlier, before I transferred. Cabana Charlie's shuttered their doors earlier this year --I don't think they ever turned a profit-- so even if I had a fallback, the option wasn't there. Hook, line or sinker I would spend the clinching game somewhere in the city.
My improv commitments complicated matters. As mentioned in past blogs, I belong to a charity organization called Funny Bones, where we do game-oriented improv for sick children in nearby hospitals. We have a monthly meeting/rehearsal the last Monday of each month, and with the Hawks up three game to two and Game 6 set for that evening, I had no choice but to miss the first period. Luckily, said meeting at the Ronald McDonald House in River North, so I accomplished half of my goal right there.
Earlier that day, my dear friend Andy invited me over to his apartment to watch the game. I told him I'd meet up after Funny Bones. Driving from River North to Old Town wasn't much a challenge; finding parking was another story. Every bar and grill within walking distance was packed, and the lack of street parking indicated that. Eventually I bit the bullet and spent $13 to park in the garage adjacent to Piper's Alley (home of Second City), than ran down the street to Andy's place. At that point, the second period was almost over and the game was tied at one. Listening to the action on my car radio was not quenching my thirst.
I plopped down on Andy's couch just as the second intermission wrapped. I nearly choked on the last part of my Subway sandwich when Boston scored their second goal midway through the period. My heart sank as I feared another tidal shift in the series. I was withdrawn to the possibly of a Game 7 until the last 1:20 of the third period. Corey Crawford was pulled and an extra defenseman brought in, which usually screams desperation. I was hoping against hope for another overtime thriller, just like three years earlier. Out of the blue, Toews fed the puck to Bryan Bickell, who slipped it past Tuukka Rask, and the game was suddenly tied. I screamed with ecstasy.
The action halted for a minute or so while everyone --TD Garden, every bar in Chicago, yours truly-- could catch their breath. I had just sat down when Dave Bolland clinched it, a mere 17 seconds after the previous goal. I screamed again, loud enough to make the apartment rattle a little, than bear-hugged Andy. The last 59 seconds of the game, complete with Boston's feeble attempt at a backhander against Crawford, was just icing on the cake. In 2007 I feared the Hawks had been irreversibly run into the ground, much like the Cubs were in the '50s and '60s. Now they had won two Stanley Cups in my lifetime. Like 2010, I cried when the Cup was carried to the ice. It was just too much.
Of course, I can't forget the pandemonium in the streets. I walked down North Avenue to see if any of the bars were getting trashed, but the post-game celebration was surprisingly mannered and mostly well-behaved. Prior to leaving Andy's apartment, I watched news footage of a helicopter hovering above the corner and Clark and Addison, where the real chaos was happening. You would think half the city was celebrating in the streets, reveling shoulder-to-shoulder as the bars and clubs poured out. In a weird twist of fate, my independent improv team was supposed to play at Mullen's on Clark that night, but the show was cancelled for the Hawks game. I was reminded of that odd twist of fate as Mullen's bright green awning glowed in the noisy dark, a beacon in the joyous ataxia. I was tempted to drive up to Wrigleyville, but I was more content to stop by the United Center on my long drive home, where a smaller but equally boisterous crowd had formed a circle of cars around the stadium lot.
And that is how I spent my Game 6.
*11 if you include the 1998 Chicago Fire, but really, let's not.
(412)
In my lifetime I've experienced ten* championships between Chicago's five major sports teams; six from the Bulls, one apiece from the Bears and White Sox, and now two from my beloved Blackhawks. (I gave up on the Cubs at age nine and I haven't looked back.) Unlike the previous nine I spent the Hawks' second title in four years in the city, as opposed to my native southwest suburbs. To elaborate:
I watched Game 6 of the 2010 Finals at a restaurant called Cabana Charlie's. My father and I wanted to see the game in a sports bar setting, and with Tilted Kilt and Buffalo Wild Wings packed shoulder to shoulder, we settled on Charlie's. The restaurant itself was a pale imitator of Jimmy Buffett's Cheeseburger in Paradise franchise, with a friendly, palm-tree exterior protecting its soulless, ersatz center. The only TVs were in the bar, and we snagged the last table with a view with 15 minutes before game time.
My family had dined at Cabana Charlie's once or twice before; the burgers were adequate but somewhat overpriced. It was never as loud or energetic, however as it was that magical night in June 2010. The bar erupted for every Hawks goal and fell silent for every Flyers lamp-lighter. I recall the confused jubilance as Patrick Kane slipped it past Michael Leighton in overtime; the buzzer went off, we cheered, but nobody could tell what happened. The replay confirmed our greatest hopes, and when the Stanley Cup was carried onto the ice about a third of the bar (including myself) cried.
Fast forward to June 2013. I had never been anywhere near the mayhem that accompanies a Chicago sports title. The Bulls riots in the early '90s made national news, but that would be the most extreme example. I stormed the north quad at Illinois State when the Bears won the 2006 NFC title, but it didn't compare to the full-fledged White Sox riot from 15 months earlier, before I transferred. Cabana Charlie's shuttered their doors earlier this year --I don't think they ever turned a profit-- so even if I had a fallback, the option wasn't there. Hook, line or sinker I would spend the clinching game somewhere in the city.
My improv commitments complicated matters. As mentioned in past blogs, I belong to a charity organization called Funny Bones, where we do game-oriented improv for sick children in nearby hospitals. We have a monthly meeting/rehearsal the last Monday of each month, and with the Hawks up three game to two and Game 6 set for that evening, I had no choice but to miss the first period. Luckily, said meeting at the Ronald McDonald House in River North, so I accomplished half of my goal right there.
Earlier that day, my dear friend Andy invited me over to his apartment to watch the game. I told him I'd meet up after Funny Bones. Driving from River North to Old Town wasn't much a challenge; finding parking was another story. Every bar and grill within walking distance was packed, and the lack of street parking indicated that. Eventually I bit the bullet and spent $13 to park in the garage adjacent to Piper's Alley (home of Second City), than ran down the street to Andy's place. At that point, the second period was almost over and the game was tied at one. Listening to the action on my car radio was not quenching my thirst.
I plopped down on Andy's couch just as the second intermission wrapped. I nearly choked on the last part of my Subway sandwich when Boston scored their second goal midway through the period. My heart sank as I feared another tidal shift in the series. I was withdrawn to the possibly of a Game 7 until the last 1:20 of the third period. Corey Crawford was pulled and an extra defenseman brought in, which usually screams desperation. I was hoping against hope for another overtime thriller, just like three years earlier. Out of the blue, Toews fed the puck to Bryan Bickell, who slipped it past Tuukka Rask, and the game was suddenly tied. I screamed with ecstasy.
The action halted for a minute or so while everyone --TD Garden, every bar in Chicago, yours truly-- could catch their breath. I had just sat down when Dave Bolland clinched it, a mere 17 seconds after the previous goal. I screamed again, loud enough to make the apartment rattle a little, than bear-hugged Andy. The last 59 seconds of the game, complete with Boston's feeble attempt at a backhander against Crawford, was just icing on the cake. In 2007 I feared the Hawks had been irreversibly run into the ground, much like the Cubs were in the '50s and '60s. Now they had won two Stanley Cups in my lifetime. Like 2010, I cried when the Cup was carried to the ice. It was just too much.
Of course, I can't forget the pandemonium in the streets. I walked down North Avenue to see if any of the bars were getting trashed, but the post-game celebration was surprisingly mannered and mostly well-behaved. Prior to leaving Andy's apartment, I watched news footage of a helicopter hovering above the corner and Clark and Addison, where the real chaos was happening. You would think half the city was celebrating in the streets, reveling shoulder-to-shoulder as the bars and clubs poured out. In a weird twist of fate, my independent improv team was supposed to play at Mullen's on Clark that night, but the show was cancelled for the Hawks game. I was reminded of that odd twist of fate as Mullen's bright green awning glowed in the noisy dark, a beacon in the joyous ataxia. I was tempted to drive up to Wrigleyville, but I was more content to stop by the United Center on my long drive home, where a smaller but equally boisterous crowd had formed a circle of cars around the stadium lot.
And that is how I spent my Game 6.
*11 if you include the 1998 Chicago Fire, but really, let's not.
(412)
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bearing Down
A great portion of my life lately has revolved around my adventures in the city of Chicago, so I apologize in advance if I seem regionally biased today:
As a Bears fan, this Sunday's matchup against the Packers is just icing on the cake. Considering what a divisive rivalry Chicago and Green Bay have, it's a marvel to think we've only met in the NFL playoffs once before, nearly 70 years ago. It goes without saying that this is the most meaningful Monsters/Cheddarheads showdown of my lifetime. I still worry about "good Cutler" and "bad Cutler," but the fact that we've made it this far is either a testament to our defense and special teams or how underwhelming the NFC was this year. Either way, I'm quite placated.
When you think about it, the Chicago sports teams in their current incarnation are a lot like the original cast of "M*A*S*H." The Blackhawks are Hawkeye (natch), the Bears are Trapper, the Bulls are Col. Blake, the Cubs and White Sox are Ferret Face and Hot Lips --you know, the comic relief-- and the Sky is Radar. Each team possesses traces of that character's quirks: the Hawks are boozy and freewheeling, Da Bears are bumbling but affable, the Cubs are borderline incompetent and constantly blaming others for their shortcomings, and the Pale Hose are shrill and overly defensive. I vaguely remember Trapper wearing a basketball jersey in one episode, and if you can make a decent Radar/Sky analogy, let me know.
Meanwhile, two weeks ago I started Writing 3 at IO. After taking on late night monologue jokes and sketch comedy, the focus has shifted to perfecting a spec script. My weekly "homework" is slightly weightier and time-consuming --hence this short entry-- but I'm still enjoying the challenge the class provides. My original idea for an episode of "American Dad!" didn't seem to impress my colleagues, but now I'm running with something I'm far more satisfied with. Concurrently, I'm in improv Level 4B across the hallway, where we're finally approaching performance level. By my best estimate, my class will be performing sometime in late February. In the meantime, I'm still jamming for 12-15 minutes every late Saturday night as Lyndsay Hailey's opening act. For you locals out there, I hope you check it out sometime.
Next Week: the year in music, 1996.
As a Bears fan, this Sunday's matchup against the Packers is just icing on the cake. Considering what a divisive rivalry Chicago and Green Bay have, it's a marvel to think we've only met in the NFL playoffs once before, nearly 70 years ago. It goes without saying that this is the most meaningful Monsters/Cheddarheads showdown of my lifetime. I still worry about "good Cutler" and "bad Cutler," but the fact that we've made it this far is either a testament to our defense and special teams or how underwhelming the NFC was this year. Either way, I'm quite placated.
When you think about it, the Chicago sports teams in their current incarnation are a lot like the original cast of "M*A*S*H." The Blackhawks are Hawkeye (natch), the Bears are Trapper, the Bulls are Col. Blake, the Cubs and White Sox are Ferret Face and Hot Lips --you know, the comic relief-- and the Sky is Radar. Each team possesses traces of that character's quirks: the Hawks are boozy and freewheeling, Da Bears are bumbling but affable, the Cubs are borderline incompetent and constantly blaming others for their shortcomings, and the Pale Hose are shrill and overly defensive. I vaguely remember Trapper wearing a basketball jersey in one episode, and if you can make a decent Radar/Sky analogy, let me know.
Meanwhile, two weeks ago I started Writing 3 at IO. After taking on late night monologue jokes and sketch comedy, the focus has shifted to perfecting a spec script. My weekly "homework" is slightly weightier and time-consuming --hence this short entry-- but I'm still enjoying the challenge the class provides. My original idea for an episode of "American Dad!" didn't seem to impress my colleagues, but now I'm running with something I'm far more satisfied with. Concurrently, I'm in improv Level 4B across the hallway, where we're finally approaching performance level. By my best estimate, my class will be performing sometime in late February. In the meantime, I'm still jamming for 12-15 minutes every late Saturday night as Lyndsay Hailey's opening act. For you locals out there, I hope you check it out sometime.
Next Week: the year in music, 1996.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thanks... and No Thanks
Ladies and gentlemen, just in time for Turkey Day I present my 5th annual "thanks/no thanks" list. Like the previous four editions of this list, I keep the context to a bare-bones minimum; it's merely an acknowledgment of all the things that have been in my peripheral in the past year. While I'm grateful for my friends and family, this list tends to focus on the intangibles in my life. It's my way to letting you know me better, one ambiguous morsel at a time.
THANKS: The stupifyingly easy Yahoo! daily crossword, the continued brilliance of The Onion, my DVR, NBC's Thursday night comedy lineup, the fact that I'm still employed, hockey's newfound relevance in Chicago, Zach Greinke, and all my new friends and classmates at Second City.
NO THANKS: Another Yankees World Championship, Glenn Beck, the coldest summer in recent memory, anything involving Nadya Suleman and the Gosselins, old friends that never check their e-mail, still living at home, writer's block, and the system errors and various other maladies that plague this otherwise wonderful web site.
Other notes:
+ NBC is about to be gobbled up by Comcast. Is this what broadcast television is being reduced to? This is almost as sad as it is symbolic of how much mass media has evolved (mutated?) in the past few decades.
+ Let me reemphasize the fact that the Bears' woes are not Jay Cutler's fault. The players won't listen to the coaches, the secondary is middling, there's no running game, and our defense is too small and too old. When I alluded to Jay's prima donna attitude before the season started, I was half-kidding. The best player on this team right now is Robbie Gould, can we all agree on that?
+ Detained terrorists in Illinois? The prospect of having them in my home state is a little off-putting, though tiny Thomson is inexplicably welcoming the idea with open arms. In all honestly, I'm on the fence; if it creates jobs for this dying Mississippi River town, so be it. Besides, isn't driving 150 miles on I-88 a punishment in itself?
+ Speaking of hockey, last night I met Dustin Byfuglien of the Chicago Blackhawks. What an incredibly nice guy.
Next week: the year in music, 1974.
THANKS: The stupifyingly easy Yahoo! daily crossword, the continued brilliance of The Onion, my DVR, NBC's Thursday night comedy lineup, the fact that I'm still employed, hockey's newfound relevance in Chicago, Zach Greinke, and all my new friends and classmates at Second City.
NO THANKS: Another Yankees World Championship, Glenn Beck, the coldest summer in recent memory, anything involving Nadya Suleman and the Gosselins, old friends that never check their e-mail, still living at home, writer's block, and the system errors and various other maladies that plague this otherwise wonderful web site.
Other notes:
+ NBC is about to be gobbled up by Comcast. Is this what broadcast television is being reduced to? This is almost as sad as it is symbolic of how much mass media has evolved (mutated?) in the past few decades.
+ Let me reemphasize the fact that the Bears' woes are not Jay Cutler's fault. The players won't listen to the coaches, the secondary is middling, there's no running game, and our defense is too small and too old. When I alluded to Jay's prima donna attitude before the season started, I was half-kidding. The best player on this team right now is Robbie Gould, can we all agree on that?
+ Detained terrorists in Illinois? The prospect of having them in my home state is a little off-putting, though tiny Thomson is inexplicably welcoming the idea with open arms. In all honestly, I'm on the fence; if it creates jobs for this dying Mississippi River town, so be it. Besides, isn't driving 150 miles on I-88 a punishment in itself?
+ Speaking of hockey, last night I met Dustin Byfuglien of the Chicago Blackhawks. What an incredibly nice guy.
Next week: the year in music, 1974.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Don't Be a Menace to Chávez Ravine While Injecting Your Juice in the Hood
Manny Ramirez's 50-game suspension for taking a fertility drug is just another nail in the coffin. I neither loved nor hated Man-Ram, yet I'm still disappointed that another baseball superstar resorted to these desperate measures. Sadly, it's gotten to the point that I would not oppose issuing lifetime bans to anyone that tests positive. I'm just tossing that idea into the air; a one-and-done rule would have a more profound effect than missing two months' worth of games, especially from a financial and reputational standpoint.
I'm not sure if there's anything else I can say about this, but my ISU buddy --and fellow radio industry gadfly-- Kyle Anderson has a far stronger opinion on the topic. This is from a rant that he posted on Facebook last week titled "My love of (pro) sports is over":
"Between Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Jason Giambi, Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, and on and on, where do baseball fans finally draw a line? It's okay to love a game. I'll ALWAYS love the game of baseball. If you knew me when I was younger, you know it was one of the few things that made me happy. And I'll always love it on a little league and high school level...
But if you consider yourself a MLB fan, where does the line stop? How can you just keep watching episode after episode of SportsCenter without taking off your tinted glasses and realizing that we haven't even hit the tip of the iceberg to this? There are 103 other players who tested positive in 2003. And they can't all be Neifi Perez. If you're a Cubs fan and they win the World Series this year, but then 5 years down the road you find out that Derrek Lee, Aramis Ramirez, Carlos Zambrano, Rich Harden, and Alfonso Soriano were all juicing, would it be worth it? If you're a Cardinals fan my age and you realize that Albert Pujols led you to the only title of our lifetimes in 2006 while he was juicing, don't you at least get a sick feeling in your stomach?
So, to simplify it...fuck it. Fuck baseball, fuck the NFL, fuck the NBA, fuck 'em all. If they're not cheaters, they're money-hungry douchebags. Or, they're out cheating on their wives in every major league city (I had a friend tell me her sister slept with Greg Maddux when he was a Brave). Or they find another way to cheat the game by corking a bat or slapping a ball out of a player's hand sissy style."
Kyle might've given up, but I'm not there quite yet. There's still nothing quite like a day at the ballpark, and the cheaters will ultimately rot in hell. Plus, Zach Grienke has been a beast this year.
Other notes:
+ Speaking of steroids, what if you were ready to do another "I told you so" dance and virtually nobody showed up? Jose Canseco, you tell us.
+ This is the political cartoon of the year, hands down.
+ Congratulations to my old pal Joe Burry (aka Darth-Revan91) upon his graduation from high school on May 21st.
+ As a Chicagoan, I can't finish this blog without these two simple words:
I'm not sure if there's anything else I can say about this, but my ISU buddy --and fellow radio industry gadfly-- Kyle Anderson has a far stronger opinion on the topic. This is from a rant that he posted on Facebook last week titled "My love of (pro) sports is over":
"Between Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Jason Giambi, Alex Rodriguez, Manny Ramirez, Roger Clemens, and on and on, where do baseball fans finally draw a line? It's okay to love a game. I'll ALWAYS love the game of baseball. If you knew me when I was younger, you know it was one of the few things that made me happy. And I'll always love it on a little league and high school level...
But if you consider yourself a MLB fan, where does the line stop? How can you just keep watching episode after episode of SportsCenter without taking off your tinted glasses and realizing that we haven't even hit the tip of the iceberg to this? There are 103 other players who tested positive in 2003. And they can't all be Neifi Perez. If you're a Cubs fan and they win the World Series this year, but then 5 years down the road you find out that Derrek Lee, Aramis Ramirez, Carlos Zambrano, Rich Harden, and Alfonso Soriano were all juicing, would it be worth it? If you're a Cardinals fan my age and you realize that Albert Pujols led you to the only title of our lifetimes in 2006 while he was juicing, don't you at least get a sick feeling in your stomach?
So, to simplify it...fuck it. Fuck baseball, fuck the NFL, fuck the NBA, fuck 'em all. If they're not cheaters, they're money-hungry douchebags. Or, they're out cheating on their wives in every major league city (I had a friend tell me her sister slept with Greg Maddux when he was a Brave). Or they find another way to cheat the game by corking a bat or slapping a ball out of a player's hand sissy style."
Kyle might've given up, but I'm not there quite yet. There's still nothing quite like a day at the ballpark, and the cheaters will ultimately rot in hell. Plus, Zach Grienke has been a beast this year.
Other notes:
+ Speaking of steroids, what if you were ready to do another "I told you so" dance and virtually nobody showed up? Jose Canseco, you tell us.
+ This is the political cartoon of the year, hands down.
+ Congratulations to my old pal Joe Burry (aka Darth-Revan91) upon his graduation from high school on May 21st.
+ As a Chicagoan, I can't finish this blog without these two simple words:
GO HAWKS!!!
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