Go Pack Go...Home: An Open Letter to Green Bay Packers Fans from an Indianapolis Colts Fan

Hey, you.

How you doin' there? Today's not so hot, huh? Trust me. I know.

You know that feeling you had for a good 14 weeks this year, where everyone trumped you up as one of the greatest teams of all time, you led SportsCenter every day, and the political ways your players and coaches dodged "19-0" questions during every single interview made you smile? Remember seeing your quarterback on every other commercial? The buzz at every home game? Those were damn good times, huh?

Well, as all good things must...it ended, but what replaced those times were about 60% as good, but you still had the gleam. Your historical dreams of immortality then shifted to saying things like, "Well, hey, the '85 Bears were 15-1," or, "Well, now they won't be distracted and can just play football". Oh, your team would still win the Super Bowl, of course--they just wouldn't be the team that gloriously dumped Mercury Morris's file into the "Irrelevant" bin.

Then...yesterday happened. And let me take a stab at your thought process during the game:

"Everyone's been talking about their team lately. What about us? We did win fourteen games in a row, after all. So while I'm a little bit worried about losing--dear God, the thought of laying an egg in our first playoff game after that whole, 'We're going undefeated' thing, I would just die--I'm not going to show it. We're going to win!"

"OK, whatever. They get on the board first, but it's only a field goal. So what?"

"We matched it. We're not getting beat in our house!"

"Fuck. They just scored a big touchdown. We'll match them..."

"And we did! Touchdown! Now if only we can score first and quit having to match, the points will start flowing..."

"OK. They got another field goal. Now here is where we get a touchdown..."

"FUCK. A touchdown at the end of the half? Are you kidding me? OK, so we're down by ten at the half. Not ideal, but we can totally come back. I trust Mike and the boys to figure things out."

"What's with all these punts? When will our offense show up? What the hell is happening? It's almost the fourth quarter!"

"Every third down is giving me an ulcer..."

"Oh, God. We're going to lose. We're going to lose, aren't we?"

"Why do I put my faith in you, Jesus? Why are you doing this to me?"

"Touchdown! Only down ten! If we can stop them here, score a touchdown, and get an onside kick, we can win!"

"We're not going to win. I care way too much about sports."

"Fuck this. I'm not even going to watch the Super Bowl. I need to take a sports break."

Sound about right? So, did you listen to sports talk radio on the way home? Or did you and your friends drive in silence? Oh, well. At least you didn't talk about how you could have spared at least a little pain--and been able to afford next year's season tickets--had you sold your tickets and not even gone to that goddamn, stupid game. Oh, dear Lord. You did do that...didn't you?



Cheer up. It gets better. Sure, you'll realize when Aaron Rodgers is, say, 36 with three serious surgeries how many titles you left on the table. Each time you had an elite quarterback go down in playoff flames only to watch someone else hoist that stupid trophy. And besides, you already have one title with Rodgers, and you had one with Favre.

Some great ones only get one, you know.

This Blog Is A Drum And It's Lost And It's Looking For A Rhythm Like You

Um...hey...you...

I realize I'm creeping back into your lives like a drunken father. You must not be angry. You must not judge. Sure, I might have blown all your formula and diaper money on liquor and horseracing, and any thought of you going to college disappeared with that Qwikster investment, but you will accept me back, yeah? Look, I know I've been whoring on your mother, and you don't need to call me Dad right away or anything, but just hear me out here.

I've missed the hell out of you, my children.

I know what you're thinking: "So, Mr. Strosnider, you sit there on your self-indulgent high horse and crank out buttfuck wisecracks when the Colts are 14-0, yet you go into hiding and a deep, dark depression when they're 0-7. You call yourself a man?" Let me tackle this: First off, I never once called myself a man. Second, this has nothing to do with the Horse, so leave them out of this. Maybe we'll get to them, maybe we won't. This is about you and me.

Have I been busy? Yeah, I mean, I guess so. I'm in school. I have a job. I got married. I'm moving to Washington, D.C. in less than two months. Does that explain my absence? Not returning your calls? My crippling heroin addiction, which leaves me laughing and spinning in a pool of my own spit, surrounded by muscle relaxers, starting and deleting draft after draft of letters to you? Actually, yes, that does explain my absence fairly accurately. That, and the aforementioned whoring. Other than those things, which take up approximately 23 hours of my work day, I have no excuse.

Listen: You WILL be a part of my life when I leave. You just will, okay? I'm not going to wave out the car window and forget all about you. I'm not Jonathan Taylor Thomas's biological father from Man of the House. No, not Chevy Chase. The biological father. The one who plants the seed of distrust towards unreliable father figures into JTT in the first place. I'm Chevy Chase. And I'm sleeping with your mother, Farrah Fawcett, who is Fake Field Goal Pass 2. Staying with me here?

You came to this website three years ago expecting three things: Karate, guns, and tanning. Whoops, sorry. Flashback. You came here expecting trust, honor, and maybe a laugh in the middle of your backbreaking workday. I can still give those to you, baby.

Give me another chance?

Fine. Words aren't enough. What you need is the power of song.




Allow me to make this clearer for you:

0:04 - Yep, that's me. Packing my bags. Always thinking of myself. I didn't have time for this blog or you and your matching yellow coat and boots, all over some sort of janitor's outfit.

0:11 - I try to tell you that I can give you anything. Can't you sense the sincerity in my delivery?

0:28 - For God's sake, I can't sleep without you. Not writing this blog has been haunting me in extremely subtle ways.

0:38 - Like I said, I've made some bad choices. I've slept with other people, but it was always in front of a picture of you and me. That's gotta count for something, right?

1:10 - This, no kidding, actually happened to me the last time I was on an airplane. I was flying to Montana, and wanted to get a good luck at the mountains, yet when I lifted up the window, all I saw was Russell Hitchcock singing next to Larry Bird nonchalantly playing a guitar.

1:38 - I swear, I always kept a picture of you in my pocket, even while other people were having fun writing other blogs and trying to get me to partake.

1:50 - Ok, no joke here. What the hell?

3:00 - I did this in my time away from this blog. A lot. With lots of dudes.

3:52 - That's you. Coming back to me, honey. You know you want to illegally, dangerously return to me.

4:05 - Don't question it. You're going to drive to the airport in the middle of the night, find a flight right at the exact moment you get there, and fly to my concert, all before the song I'm playing ends. If only there were a way we could tell each other how we felt while I was onstage...

4:35 - <3

4:45 - Welcome back to Fake Field Goal Pass 2--the only place in the world where it feels like you're being held by Graham Russell under smoke and seizure-inducing lighting.

It's good to be back.

Instant Reaction

Who sucks, exactly? Polian. Caldwell. Coyer. Collins. Everyone.

We can officially say it now: Jim Caldwell sucks as a head coach in the NFL. Remember when Brady went down and the Pats STILL finished with 10 wins? I think it's fairly safe to say that's not going to happen this season with the Colts. Shouldn't we be seeing SOMETHING creative? One damn thing that makes you think, "Wow, that was smart." For fuck's sake, this offensive line is as porous as SpongeBob's ballsack, yet we call a sweep? Really? A play that requires the line to hold and drive for an extra half second so the running back can even get back to the line of scrimmage before making something happen?

And speaking of the line, Mr. Polian, WHY HAS THIS NOT BEEN FIXED? In two years, Jeff Linkenbach is going to have a sad face when I tell him I brought my own reusable bag to the store, rendering his selection of paper or plastic meaningless. And what's the defense's excuse for this first half? Was Manning calling their plays, too?

Obviously this front office and coaching staff have been leaning on Manning way, way too hard, and maybe it's time to go.



Oh wait, THEY WON'T GO ANYWHERE! They have a built-in excuse with Manning! Who needs to show your own mettle when you can just sit back and chalk it up as a loss? So far this half, the offense looks like a guy playing Madden who relies on the same plays, and when they don't work, he's screwed. Once he gets down by two touchdowns, every single pass is an up-for-grabs long ball. Has there been a third and short yet? It seems like third and long all day, nay, all season long.

And why have the same plays and positions hurt the Colts for ten years? Hey, big shock, the NFL changed special teams rules and we STILL give up a special teams touchdown. Guess what, NFL? If your QB rolls out to the right and your tight end runs across the middle, he WILL catch a first down. Pretty much if you pretend to run a play to one direction and go the other way, the Colts look like a child who was just shown a bird by a magician. The running game has been abysmal since John Wooden was in the fifth grade.

I used to think the players resented Manning because of all the attention he got, and how everyone thought there'd be nothing but doom and gloom if he ever got hurt. Well, turns out it's all true, so they should beg for his return and kiss his feet when he does.

And the defense? Well, they just need to blow it up. IT DOESN'T WORK.

This season sucks.

William Dorsey The Great

I remember watching some random Green Bay Packers game in the '90s when Brett Favre handed the ball off, prompting Pat Sumerall or someone to say, "Dorsey Levins with the three yard gain." Holy shit!, my foul-mouthed middle school brain must have thought, for I had never heard anyone, ever, with the name Dorsey, other than it being my father's middle name.

Dorsey. Some poor man asked his wife what they should name their child, and she smiled up at him and said Dorsey. Obviously my father hated it, and the name will always be one of the main reasons I am not currently William Dorsey Strosnider, Junior. That, and neighborhood children would have certainly called me "Billy", which my dad also despised. Ironic coming from a man who, when asked by his father-in-law in 1984 the name of his future grandson, replied instinctively "Lemuel".

Lemuel Strosnider.

Let's just say I wouldn't have been a ladies magnet.

My dad was a Pittsburgh guy, specifically a Washington, Pennsylvania guy--meaning he would say things like "leave go" instead of "let go"--who deemed his only son worthy of sharing his boyhood fandom of the Pirates and Steelers. After he purchased a Back-to-Back Stanley Cub Champion Penguins t-shirt for me while I was in elementary school (a shirt I would stab a homeless man for now, so long as it wouldn't get blood on the shirt, assuming said man was wearing it), the deal was complete.


A portrait of the father as an 80's badass.

This diabolical sports family heirloom caught a snag however when my father received season tickets through work to the local fledgling Colts franchise and took me every home game--a very admirable move I must say upon reflection. (My wife and I were having a conversation recently about whether our future children would end up being New Orleans Saints fans if we moved to the city. I said of course they wouldn't, for their father would brainwash and manipulate them into being Indianapolis Colts fans. Bill Simmons actually wrote an interesting piece about this very issue. Also, my wife asked me if a black guy on a New Orleans brochure was Peyton Manning, so we can at least all agree this issue matters a tad more to me than her.) Still, it was a gutsy decision on behalf of my father--perhaps on par with Kennedy and the Cuban Missle Crisis--and there we were, lustily booing Jeff George and watching the losses pile up like dishes.

Of course, he still said annoying things like, "Hey, at least the Steelers are still in it. You have two favorite teams, you know," when Aaron Bailey dropped the Near Hail Mary to advance the Steelers to the Super Bowl, eliminating the Harbaugh-Crockett Miracle Colts of 1995-96. I still unwrapped Jerome Bettis jerseys for Christmas, found Bubby Brister Starting Lineup figures on my shelf, and received Steelers Super Bowl t-shirts in the mail when they made it to the big game.


Me, left, proudly wearing the jersey of a man with a children's hospital named after him, and my father, proudly wearing the jersey of a man who has been accused of sexual assault twice.

Weirdly, not too many of my friends knew, or perhaps ever even met my dad. He and my mom divorced when I was in the third grade, followed by a prompt move out to the country. I spent every other weekend with him, yet never felt like quite the same person I was around everyone else with him. There was definitely a "Mom & Friends Matt" and a "Dad Matt", and I was never quite sure why I never invited my friends over to my father's house. Perhaps because my dad never met his father, and always questioned whether or not he was capable of being a good father to me. Maybe that rubbed off, and I too was unsure what it meant to be a good son.

I felt my dad was a dad: he took me to see shitty action movies like Anaconda, Con Air, Armageddon, and Double Team with Jean-Claude Van Dam and Dennis Rodman. He routinely mispronounced and totally forgot athletes' names. Below is a list of names, and to the right is the name my father routinely called them (even after blatant correct pronunciation by me):

LeBron James - LeBon James
Roy Hibbert - Roy Hubert
Ben Roethlisberger - Ben Rothenberger

There's a ton more, I just unfortunately cannot remember them all right now. Ironically, he said Rajon Rondo and Troy Polamalu just fine.



When my father was diagnosed with leukemia in April of 2010, I had to get to know him. Sure, I knew the basics: he worked for Coca-Cola for like 35 years; he married my mom; he had two younger brothers who still lived in Pennsylvania; and he loved me. Those were certainties, but what else? It was quite apparent I didn't know a whole lot, and we always filled up the air with Lorem Ipsum sports talk and quick exchanges about school.

Trust me: ask your father about his life. You don't even need to wait for him to get some disease or anything. Of course I'm going to leave many details in that hospital room that night, but I would have never guessed my dad was a fireman in the pits of the Indianapolis 500 in the 70's, nor that he was offered (and turned down) a marijuana-cocaine drug route from Mexico while living in Arizona. I would have had no idea he wrecked so many classic cars, was a cook in the Navy, or made golf clubs in Chicago.

My father died on Tuesday, the day of the MLB All-Star Game. As goofy as the analogy of cancer and fighting is, my dad was tough as nails. He went through two rounds of chemotherapy and spent a good chunk of one year in the hospital.

Even though I know he wouldn't believe me, I learned how to be a father from him. I know teenage screams and baby vomit are on the way, but it's going to be great. I'm glad I got to know him.

And oh yeah...the Pirates are in first place.

Here's to you, Pops.

Nut Duggan

I've always withheld the following information from every single one of my friends to whom I've told this story. It's simply too fascinating to keep in one more day:

I saw "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan once at the Hendricks County Fairgrounds. Wrestling. He was wrestling for money at the Hendricks County Fairgrounds. I also saw Buff Bagwell there, but I'm not sure if it was the same night. If not, that means I've seen wrestling twice at the Hendricks County Fairgrounds. Someone asked me to go, assuming I enjoyed the first time I went, bought the ticket with my enjoyment in mind, and I said yes. Or I myself bought the ticket.

Either way, that is no juicy gossip around these parts. Everyone knows that.

Here is what you don't know.


Duggan, "Hacksaw" Jim.

They selected five people that night to go backstage and hang out with the wrestlers (okay, now I totally remember Buff Bagwell wasn't there. Yep, I've gone twice. Goddamnit). Indeed, I was the last person chosen. The American symbol of my youth was sitting behind that curtain, waiting for my much-too-old hand to greet.

After waiting in the range of a twelve minute line, the seated massive dough shook my hand and said, "Hey, it's always nice to meet my fans, Matt. My name's Jim", right? Took off the mask a little? Stepped out?

"HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

Dead silence. Neither one of us knew what to say next, and we just stared at each other for easily seven seconds. Duggan finally broke the air with, "You know, I don't care what nobody says. You can kick 'er down but she comin' up. 'merica's had some bad times, but you look at the history books, friend. She's had 'em before, and some good young men stood up for her and all of us."

I couldn't tell if he was in character or if this was just who he really was. There are so many uber-patriotic hillbillies in this nation, Vince McMahon could have very reasonably driven through a town one night and picked one off the street.

I found my footing and answered, "This was awesome, man. I grew up watching you. Are you doing okay? I've seen some pretty rough documentaries about professional wrestlers. The stats aren't great, but you look like you're staying in really good shape."

Admittedly, kind of a weird thing to say to somebody you're meeting for the first time. Did I totally mean it? I don't know. I probably just wanted him to think I was cool, which perfectly frames my adolescent prioritizing skills. Or young adult. Whatever. I don't remember.

At this moment, a younger woman crept around the curtain and said something I couldn't quite decipher, but undoubtedly in the "Come on, Jim! Let's get goin'! I wanna do drugs and fuck!" fashion. Let's just say if masturbating is a 4 out of 10, this woman was a 2. If you told me this girl was my daughter in 17 years, I'd slide down a wall in front of my wife, the end result being something similar to this:





This was a crucial moment. How would Duggan react to this woman? Would he say something about why the flag has 13 bars, seven of which are red? Perhaps about the economic position of American Vietnam War vets?

"What did I tell ya about pokin' your head in here when I'm meetin' with a goddamn fan? Huh? What did I goddamn tell ya?"

"You sai..."

"Shut up. Get outta my face. The boys know where we're goin'. They know where the place is. You can go to the hotel if you don't wanna go. I don't give a shit whatchyoudo."

The poor girl rightfully got upset and kicked the post holding the curtain up, and it fell down on this cardboard stand either Duggan's people or the fairground staff put up, which had a children's replica of a championship wrestling belt, some 2x4s, and about a thousand clippings from various wrestling magazines, all of them mentioning Duggan. Each instance was highlighted. One page even just had "Dug-" as the last word, with "(Continuing on Page 76)" underneath.

The struck post smashed into this bizarre Duggan shrine and destroyed about 17% of it. I'm definitely thinking I should leave. She looks at me like I'm going to stick up for her against "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan, and while I love defending the honor of a woman, I wasn't quite sure how to defend the far more deadly "Three Point Stance". I looked back at her in what is certainly the most emasculating moment of my life.

"Oh, you better be in that car when I'm done with these kids. You better be in that fuckin' car."

The unattractive young woman pulled the curtain shut. Duggan stared at the curtain for a few seconds, turned to me smiling and said, "You want me to sign somethin'?"






(For unwanted future legal reasons, a great deal of this story is fabricated.)

America's Precious Mighty Mavs

Yeaaaaaaaaaaaah! I own a sports team! Yeaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Ha ha huh-ha!!!

With all due respect, Mr. Cuban, I never get picked to play by any of these guys. As sure as summer, though, I can play. Give me a chance.

Me too. I had my shot...my chance...but my knee gave out. Doctors said I'd never play again, but I know I've still got it. It feels better than before, even when I cut.

People say I'm old. As a matter of fact, I haven't played a single game in seven years where my opponent hasn't literally said, "Let's see what you've got, old man" as he was checking me the basketball.

Only thing, though. Do you think my friend Dirk could come? He wouldn't have to be on the team or anything. He just moved here, and he doesn't have too many friends.

I did a little coaching back in college. I guess I could, you know, get you guys started...until you found yourself a real coach.

So, first things first...who we playin'?

















Boys, get some sleep tonight. You've got practice at six.



THE NEXT MORNING

Wow, Jason! Your friend Dirk sure can shoot! Why, I bet with him on our team, we could beat the Heat!

Whaddya say, Dirk? You wanna play for the team? You play basketball?

Machst du Witze? Ich würde gerne spielen! Are you kidding? I'd love to play!

1-1, ladies and gentlemen.

NBA Tuesday

One year ago, this very space was dedicated to previewing the NBA Finals. At that time, I was a (legally) single man-about-town attempting to guess, eventually successfully, mind you, the fates of the Lakers and Celtics. Now? I am but a married father of three, suffering from a very degenerative second case of The Gout, and currently on trial for intimidation and exposure. Life has most certainly changed.

With that said, I did not watch a single conference final game in its entirety. With the wedding, honeymoon, and working, I was reduced to a box-score-checking kind of fan, catching the last few minutes of games and listening to the radio. I did see The Maverick Comeback against Oklahoma City, and followed the brilliance of Dirk Nowitzki and LeBron James on a nightly basis.

With credibility unmistakably assassinated, I present to you...

NBA FINALS EDITION: THE YEAR 2011

STARTING POINT GUARDS

Jason Kidd vs. Mike Bibby

I'll go ahead and sidestep (while still acknowledging) the easy joke about it being 1999. This is a really bizarre point guard matchup until you realize Jason Kidd is still pretty good, and Mike Bibby plays with LeBron James and Dwyane Wade.

So does Miles Simon sit at home and just get hammered while watching Mike Bibby play? Slamming hard liquor down and living vicariously with every Bibby shot, all the while calling him nicknames Bibby hasn't heard in 15 years? Things like "Come on, Baby B! Just like we did to Derek Anderson!", and laughing every time he messes up the Arizona fight song until the twelfth time, when he cries? Sound right to anyone else?

STARTING SHOOTING GUARDS

Dwyane Wade vs. DeShawn Stevenson

Yet another preseason Finals matchup bet I won. This battle pits the 2006 Finals MVP against a man with a backwards Pittsburgh Pirates "P" tattooed on his face.

Moving on.

STARTING SMALL FORWARDS

Shawn Marion vs. LeBron James

Ah, sports. What a delicious recipe! Let me get this straight: you take everyone's favorite player, grind him through a public relations nightmare, right about until you realize, "Jesus, yeah, that guy is good." You never really stop watching, nor halt appreciating what it is you're watching. You want to hate, but he makes it extremely difficult with his phenomenal play--on the court, of course. And you continue to root for him to lose, eventually because you're just tired of seeing him win.

That, and because sometimes he's just a douche. The other 99.2% of the time, though? Cool as shit.

And then, of course, you have LeBron James in this matchup.

STARTING POWER FOWARDS

Chris Bosh vs. Dirk Nowitzki

This duel is pivotal, with the two most obvious outcomes being:

1) Dirk wins a title, and catapults into the always hyperbolic "All They Do On The Radio and TV Now is Talk About Where He Ranks In History" cast for the next week.

2) The three games in Dallas are delayed by a combined 17 minutes as Chris Bosh tries to scrub the fecal matter into his dark-colored away shorts after seeing a montage of Dirk's offensive arsenal on the JumboTron pre-game.

STARTING CENTERS

Tyson Chandler vs. Joel Anthony

Not since Bird and 'Nique lit up the Garden have the NBA Playoffs seen the offensive explosion this individual matchup is sure to produce. The fundamental rebounding, the air-tight defense, the incalculable number of times Joel Anthony had to say, "No, it's Jo-elle" to a substitute teacher growing up. What a, well, another random matchup.

THE BENCH

Mike Miller, Udonis Haslem, James Jones, and Mario Chalmers vs. Jason Terry, Peja Stojakovic, Brendan Hawyood, and JJ Barea

Initially this has me worried if I'm rooting for the Heat, even if Haslem can be a beast and harass Dirk all night long. And even though his team has had ample rest for most of the playoffs, don't you still get the feeling JJ Barea is fatigued due to furiously bedding supermodels?

THE FAR SIDE OF THE BENCH

Brian Cardinal, Corey Brewer, and Ian Mahinmi vs. Juwan Howard, Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and Eddie House

Fun fact: Brian Cardinal has made around $38 million in his eleven year career.*

* = In a league which will almost certainly lockout next season to hammer some serious financial shit out, especially regarding foolishly lucrative contracts to fringe players.

COACHING

Erik Spoelstra vs. Rick Carlisle

I don't fucking know.

THE VERDICT

This is an incredibly difficult Finals to guess the result of while referring to yourself as an expert. I initially went with Mavs in 6, then felt foolish realizing that meant I was picking a team with LBJ and Wade to only win two games in a seven game series in which they have homecourt advantage, especially in the goofy 2-3-2 format. Has anyone looked better in these playoffs than the Mavericks, though?

Um, actually, maybe the Heat. Miami in 7.

No, wait. Mavericks in 7.

Shit, no. Heat in 3.