The World, Starting Tonight

Hi, and welcome to SportsCenter.  Alongside Josh Elliott, who no longer works here but the author was too lazy to find a better picture, I'm Hannah Storm.  The King...has his crown.  LeBron James has his first of what certainly will be many rings after leading his Heat to a 97-84 victory over the Oklahoma City Thunder tonight in Miami.  South Beach is rocking.  What a historic postseason run by the greatest natural talent the National Basketball Association has possibly ever seen.

And now, LeBron James, possibly the most clutch postseason player the league has ever seen, the 2012 regular season MVP, Finals MVP, the accolades go on and on.  Guys, Michael Jordan won his first title after his seventh season in the league.  He, of course, went on to win six.  LBJ now has his first title after his ninth season.  How many more can he get?  Can he get to seven?  I think he can, and I think he will.

To all you people crying about the way the Heat came together--cry me a river!  LeBron has dealt with expansion!  He's dealt with incompetent general managers!  He didn't have a savvy front office type to draft a Kevin McHale or a Robert Parrish or a Scottie Pippen or a James Worthy.  He had to do it himself!  I'd say this is the single most impressive victory in the history of sport.  LeBron was the MVP, coach, and GM of this team!  Hail to the King!  I'm a loyal servant!

Guys, masterful job by Erik Spoelstra.  This guy can flat out coach.  Hell, he may be the best coach in the league.  Sources are reporting that Pat Riley has offered him a reported 25-year contract to reportedly coach the Heat at a reportedly staggering $12 million a year, but Spo reportedly wants to take a vacation with his family and reportedly think it through.

Well, before we shift our focus to the draft, who do you have winning next year?  You know who I have?  The Heat!  They're going to win the title the next 37 years.  Who cares that I said the Spurs two weeks ago, or that I said the Thunder would win the next eight titles a week ago.  Accountability sounds like one of Superman's powers, right?  Guys...can the Heat go 82-0 next year?

Guys, what's wrong with Kevin Durant?  Can the guy even play basketball anymore?  I mean, he's never won anything anywhere he's been.  His Texas team got bounced early in the tournament, and he went 0-2 against Kansas.  His first year in Seattle they went 20-62.  I mean, scoring titles are nice, but sooner or later this guy's gonna have to start producing.  He needs to put on some muscle, get stronger, develop a post game, play meaner defense, become a better dribbler, a crisper passer, a more efficient shooter, and that's just the beginning.

Is Russell Westbrook on his way out of town?  Sources are saying the Rondo-for-Westbrook talks are heating up again, or, wait for it, the Lakers!  The Knicks?

  

LeRant

Thank the dear, sweet lord.

POINT GUARDS

Russell Westbrook vs. Mario Chalmers

Opposing point guard play has been going rather well against the Miami Heat so far in the playoffs, not counting guys literally breaking their legs.  Darren Collison certainly had his moments, and of course Rajon Rondo statistically knocked on the door of my historic 2005-6 "playing against elementary school kids while working after-school care" season.  What will RussWest do to them?  He'll probably have a few shooting stinkers, but the guy's just too damn athletic to lose this individual matchup.  That is, until LeBron shifts over to guard him.  We'll see.

SHOOTING GUARDS

Dwyane Wade vs. Thabo Sefolosha

Rant:  Wade is damn obnoxious.  I had a discussion with a co-worker (a Celtics fan) about him sometime during the Heat-Pacers series.  She couldn't understand how or why I didn't like Dwyane Wade.  In the middle of the Heat-Celtics series, she agreed wholeheartedly.  The dude bitches when a team celebrates on the court after beating them during a heated playoff series, yet practically comes out to the Goldberg routine to introduce his team to their fans in the offseason before playing one game.  The guy sulks and bumps his coach and glares at refs and whines for every...single...fucking...call, just to bump his chest and step over dudes and stare at the crowd when the Heat have a big lead.  When he held his hand up after hitting a three in front of the Maverick bench last season in the Finals, I was hoping Rick Carlisle would chew his dick off like a dog.

SMALL FORWARDS

Kevin Durant vs. LeBron James

I saw Prometheus in 3D the other night.  The feeling I have right now, fifteen minutes before the start of what promises to be one of the most electrifying, historically significant NBA Finals matchups ever, is the same I get when I'm sitting in the theater for a film I've been waiting on and already know will deliver.  It's as if Christopher Nolan surprised everyone and The Dark Knight Rises came out tonight.  LeBron and Durant?  Are you kidding?  I longed for this matchup all season (with the known asterisk being the Pacers would not make the Finals), even when San Antonio sucked me in with the offer of watching a team dominate night in and out on their way to immortality.

The King and Durant!  

EVERYONE ELSE

Are you kidding?  LeBron and Durant?  In the NBA Finals?  Everyone wanted Kobe vs. LeBron a few years back (thanks, Magic) but this is better!  I don't give a shit about Chris Bosh or Shane Battier or Derek Fisher going for six (just shoot me) or Spoelstra maybe winning the title and getting fired in the offseason Switzer-style.  

THE VERDICT

I can't.  You're picking against LeBron, a historic talent who has played brilliantly all playoffs, to come up with nothing again.  You're picking against Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook.  You're picking against a coach who looks like Gordon Bombay on the night of his DUI and another coach who looks like he's looking at boobs for the first time.

So, I asked someone who knows nothing about sports.  Someone who once asked if a black man on a New Orleans brochure was Peyton Manning.  Someone who routinely asks both what sport the Pacers play and what state they are from.  I asked my darling wife.

Without missing a beat?

Heat in six.

Everyone but Seattle hopes not.

Sign Up For Pedophind Today!

In school all the kids tried to be the next equipped with ideas resting comfortably in now.  The professors challenged us to gather into teams and compete to design the future's great social networking feat, and I certainly had roles in many-a-team whose goals fit somewhere between "digital photography that automatically names, files, properly stores, and shares photographs as you take them" and "um, something like Twitter that is, like, a trainer and makes you go to the gym when you don't really want to, and it posts your results so your friends, who are also working out, can also look at it, too.  It pushes you." Facebook wasn't built in a day, and you have to be prepared to withstand an onslaught of terrible ideas that either should never exist or practically already do.

The exact reason for such bland concepts surrounding me was purposeful:  I was a yes man.  I grew comfortable in the role of "I'll hang back and you direct" guy, and let them think I was docile and serene.  I gladly offered to write and storyboard the products' commercials and present it to the class.  The Pitch Man.  Of course, the reason I contributed little in the idea department was because I carried the only idea that truly mattered, and wasn't about to waste it amongst thought thieves and hangers-on.  Tenured leaches.

Which brings us...to today.  The launch.  What's launching, you ask?  America.  Into the next economic recovery, and I'm shooting her there with my social networking rubber band.

We all want...that world.  That place where boundaries are thin as floss.  Where everyone you know (assuming you Tweet, live vlog, and photo share) can practically say they were right there with you at the bar on Saturday night.  Hell, they were basically singing that old favorite tune with their arms wrapped around you.  Isn't that what we want?  For our children?  

I introduce to you...Pedophind.

Let me guess:  You gasped, said, "It's the future," and cupped your hand to your mouth, and maybe dropped something that you were holding while backing up slowly.  I'd say get on board now.  There aren't enough seats to save, and you might not get to sit next to your friend.  I'd also say Pedophind was the next thing in social networking, but that would be an insult towards the lightning speed at which this baby is gonna hit.


I know what you're thinking--I don't know if I believe this man, but goddamn do I hope it's true.  Well, why tell you when I can show you?  And if you're gonna stand for a product you believe in, you're not gonna use no phoney actors, neither.  We'll do me!

This, is my Facebook page:

(Click to enlarge any and all photographs)

Now, let's go ahead and hover just to the left of the Facebook logo on the top left corner of the screen.  A kind of shittily cut and pasted P will appear.

Using our innovative dysonphontical nuzecahngraphalite triangulation, we probably won't find anything cool, but let's go ahead and click on that P anyway.

Every one of those colorful squares is my friend now!  And they all live close to me!  Pedophind combines the modern convenience of a digital friendship with the physical ramifications of a "real" one.

Remember that Facebook page you saw?  Let's take a look at it now...

All of that just by clicking the P!  Who wants to try to make friends?  We do all the work for you!  We can't post pictures of your daughters or yourselves in two-piece bikinis, but we're pretty sure you're going to do that yourselves.

Pedophind--We Put Their ______ In Your _______

(Disclaimer:  We're still working on the catchphrase.  The board is split between "Trust" and "Hands" or "Dicks" and "Mouth")

P.S.
Today's easy joke was just to see if you were paying attention.  Coming later today, FFGP2's third annual NBA Finals preview!  Stay tuned!

Read Osama's Diary Before The World Gets It

According to every single reputable media source in the world, the United States will soon reveal Osama bin Laden's personal diary, obtained during the infamous May 2, 2011 Navy SEAL raid that ended the life of the loving father of between 20 and 26. Fortunately for you twelve readers, FFGP2 has been granted access to the journal, and right here, right now is the first time anyone in the general public has laid eyes on it.

Without further ado, and certainly without censorship, the feelings, thoughts, and secrets of one of history's most notorious men:

August 1, 2010

Oh. My. Allah. The gals and I just went to see Charlie St. Cloud. It is totes the movie of the year! If it doesn't win Best Kiss at the MTV Movie Awards, I may just have to start some shit up again. Zac was better than evs! It was sooooo sad when he couldn't drop his little dead brother's baseball glove into the casket. 

And oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention...Shells and I MET ZAC EFRON! So when Ayman al-Zawahiri says, "Oh, no you didn't...", I can say, "Oh yes, I did! This isn't like your lying ass in 1998 when you claimed to have met Joshua Jackson! Check out the pic!"

Here is my autographed poster! He spelled my name wrong, but who cares! It's Zac Freaking Efron! And it's not even my real first name--it's just easier to tell people, especially when making reservations.

Before he left, I said, "I love you, Zac." He said he appreciated it, but I pulled him closer and said, "No, you don't understand.  I love you." I could feel the tears on my cheeks, so I was a little embarrassed, but when would I have the opportunity to tell him that again?


September 11, 2010

Went to Red Lobster today to celebrate the nine year anniversary.  Praise Allah, are those cheddar biscuits something!

P.S.
Call Red Lobster tomorrow.  Think I left my camo hoodie.


 November 4, 2010

W-E-I-R-D moment this morning.  Right as I'm masturbating to Condoleezza Rice, a news report comes on the screen that I've been captured!  Praise Allah, don't do that to me!


January 16, 2011

2011 TOTES sucks.  None of my five wives are putting out, I'm stuck in this Allahdamn "mansion" in Abbottabad, my fucking remote control car needs more batteries but my driver won't go get some, and the local supermarket is out of Tostitos pizzas.  Hey, market!  How hard is it to keep Tostitos pizzas in stock?  They're really fucking lucky they're the only place in town with Cool Ranch Doritos and Code Red Dew or else they'd be a burning pile on the news tonight.


February 8, 2011

I know, I've seen it a thousand times, but the school shooting episode of One Tree Hill was on tonight.  The guys were all like, "Hey, OBL, we need to get cracking, man!  The ten year anniversary is coming up!" and I was all like, "When the ten year anniversary looks as good as Chad Michael Murray, I'll start paying attention to it!" Best moment of the night:  Anwar al-Awlaki being sent to get me, then staying for the rest of the episode!


March 2, 2011

So I was waaaaaaaay late to the She's All That party.  This movie came out in '99?  Seriously?  I made it 54 years without seeing my favorite film?  There are travesties and there are travesties.


April 20, 2011

LOL moment of the day:  So I gathered the guys and was like, "Alright, who's ready to hear the planning for the next monumental moment in the world's history?" Of course everybody jumps up, leans in, and...I farted!


May 2, 2011

I've studied it a lot online, and I guess if you just take a bag and put it over your head, wrap a belt around your neck, and pull your pants--

The Pacers, Sadly, Should Probably Just Relocate Already

Great job, Gunther.  That was the ape's penis.  Now, on to today's topic:  Building a passionate fan base.

Alright, you and me are putting together a basketball team.  We should put it somewhere, obviously, where people love basketball.  When you hear the term "hotbed of basketball", what jumps to mind?  Are there any movies essentially named after a state's historic love and legacy of basketball?  

Exactly.   Indiana.  Okay, so we're going to put it in Indiana.  Now, before we get to the construction of the team itself, we need to keep in mind that shit like character and integrity matters significantly more than big-market teams, but talent trumps all.  Let me repeat:  Talent trumps all.  Choir boys don't sell out too many 16,000 seat stadiums.  But that shouldn't matter, right?  It's Indiana!  I've always heard they sell out huge gyms for high school games.

I've got a great idea!  Well, we picked the socially renowned "hotbed of basketball" Indiana as the spot for our team, so we probably don't need too many marketing gimmicks, but what if we got someone who was a legend in the sport (and from Indiana--double score!) to be the face of our franchise?  He would sit amongst the fans at every home game!  I'm thinking Dick Van Arsdale, but I'm open to suggestions.

 

Holy shit, of course!  Larry Joe Bird!  Jesus, we better wrap this up soon--our games may already be sold out.

I'm not really sure the coach matters that much, to be honest with you.  It seems like if the players like the coach, they win, and if they don't like the coach, they lose until he gets fired.  It's one of the more brutally honest factors of the game.  Wait, so does that mean coaching does matter?  Okay, okay...let's just get some player coach who fires the fans up with feisty comments.

Now the arena.  We can't, just absolute can't, have a shitty arena.  I think we both agree there.  Nice arena it is.

Okay, now the team.  Let's flip a coin to see if we're blessed to have a superstar--you know, national (and often times, international) marketing, prime time games,  and general relevance.  In other words, a godsend.  Damn, I just realized that big-name free agents probably aren't going to be lining up to play in Indiana.  We're going to have to get ours in the draft, which requires losing, securing the number one pick, and accomplishing both of these feats in exactly the right year.  Shit.  Okay, flip.

Goddamnit, tails!  You did indeed fail!  Okay.  That's okay.  No superstar.  We're just going to have to be really smart in the draft and with our money.

First, let's get somebody who shoots threes.  People in Indiana love threes.  Hell, let's even make his number 33.  He'll be quiet, unassuming, and talented.  Not exactly a "star", but nobody that's going to turn away fans, either.  Maybe he'll make, say, one All Star team.

Next we need an incredibly likeable big man.  Somebody who buys up seats and gives them to fans, stuff like that.  A player who noticeably works hard in the offseason and comes back leaner and with a few more moves.  Maybe he could even make the All Star team one year.

Now for the two-guard.  Get this!  An absolute athletic freak who throws down harder windmills than Don Quixote and plays his ass off on defense.

Fuck yes!  That's a great idea!  We'll bring hometown hero George Hill to Indiana!  He grew up there, played high school in Broad Ripple, and went to college at IUPUI.  Perfect fit!  I only hope our fans enjoy standing room only tickets!

Now how about just a famous collegiate athlete.  Somebody everybody knows.  Not going to impress you with athleticism, but a guy who played four years at school and had success.  A guy who will work hard, get a couple "nice job, (insert name here)" plays a game, and grab some boards for you.

Let's also make sure we get a "veteran presence" guy whose been in the league, had some success, and if he attended a Midwestern college, even better.  Hell, even he's made an All Star team, let's say.

Point guard has to be quick.  He, like every single other member of the team save maybe one, should be an outstanding member of the community.  He can also play four years at a historically great school.  Since we've got three guys that have made All Star teams, let's leave him off.  Still okay, though.

You know those (if they're not on your team, slightly annoying) hustling white guys?  The guys getting scrappy offensive rebounds and put backs?  Let's get another one of those, and let's make sure he has funny hair.  I think I remember Scot Pollard mentioning that people from Indiana love funny hair.

That's pretty good for now.  We can fill out the rest of the roster spots later with guys like Dahntay Jones and Jeff Pendergraph.

What if I told you the team we just made up was a real team?  And I had the numbers regarding NBA attendance?  Let's try to guess where we're at in average attendance!

No, I thought we might be first, too, until I thought about the big market cities.  They just have more people.  Strange concept, huh?  No, the Bulls are actually first.  They brought in a cool 22,000+ a game.  Damn.  No shame in not matching that, I guess.  It is Chicago.  Don't worry, I'm sure we'll come up soon.

Huh.  I used the small-market excuse, but guess who's two?  The Portland Trail Blazers.  Their fans are legendary, so this gives us hope, I guess.  Really thought we might have been there.  I know we're coming up!

Dallas, Miami, and New York are three, four, and five.  Makes sense.  Still not sweating.

Wow, Utah at six?  Over 19,000 people on average in Utah went to every single home game?  That's impressive.

Okay, I'm starting to worry now.  The Lakers and Clippers are next (actually surprised LA was this far down), followed by Orlando and Golden State.  Golden State has had miniscule success in its history in the NBA, and, goddamn, do those fans still show up every game.

Boston, sure.  San Antonio, okay.  Oklahoma City is next, they're good.  The Sixers, fine.  The Timberwolves, can't argue with...wait, what?  The Timberwolves?  In Minnesota?

Denver, check.  Toronto.  Toronto?  I thought I read that wrong.  Did we choose right with Indiana?  Are they really a "basketball state"?  I'm starting to wonder...

DC is next, okay.  Sure.  Cleveland?  Fucking Cleveland beat us!  Their star left and publicly decimated their franchise!  They had one of the worst records in the league last season!  Why can their fans show loyalty and ours can't?  Okay, it's fine, calm down.  We have to be coming up.

Memphis and Phoenix, fine.  Houston and Atlanta, whatever.  Charlotte.

Wait a second.

Charlotte?  The Bobcats?  The historically terrible, obviously tanking, nationally irrelevant but for their woes and owner Bobcats?  They ranked ahead?  Really?

Milwaukee and Sacramento.  Hey, hasn't Sacramento been in the news lately for possibly relocating?

The Pistons are next, awesome.  

And then look who it is, sitting at number 29.  

Indiana.

29 out of 30.  The last team you ask?  The New Jersey Nets, who have already packed their bags and are moving to Brooklyn.  Congratulations, Indiana.  You beat a relocating franchise--by 102 average fans a game.

May I chime in before I hear the should-be-tape-recorded "they were thugs" and "that team turned off the city" lines?  Shut up.  Do you know what this organization did?  They did everything they could to appease your ass.  They traded your "thugs" for squeaky clean guys with half the talent and, would you believe it, the on-court product suffered.  They became easily one of the three to four most irrelevant franchises in the league, and you quit going.

Then the team started cheesy promotions, resembling a minor league baseball team.  Basically giving tickets away.  The Pacers team Twitter feed is a lot like that kid who bounced the ball at the end of his driveway alone, hoping someone would ask him to play.

And now?  They have the roster listed above and are still 29 out of 30.  With a third seeded team in the playoffs.  In a beautiful arena.

And they were 30 out of 30 last season.  And that team made the playoffs, too.

People can still call Indiana the hotbed of basketball.  They should just put an asterisk next to it that signifies the professional team doesn't count. 

This team should be a real threat to relocate.  The sad part is, it's deserving. 

Fourteen Months

Peyton Manning and the Indianapolis Colts lost to the New York Jets in the wild-card round of the playoffs in January 2011--Manning's last game as a Colt.  Of course, no one knew that then.  To suggest this that night would have been absurd--you would have been laughed out to the street.  You lose.  Good day, sir.  Of course Manning would retire a Colt, seeing as how he surely had a good four to five very effective years left in him, and even if he did hang on a year or two, the Colts and their fans owed that to him, and should appreciate his cerebral adjustments when his body began to give. Duncan's a Spur, Jeter's a Yankee, and Manning's a Colt.

And yet since that night, the Indianapolis Colts had lost Manning for an entire season, finally drinking the poison that was the tangible collective fear the Mighty Manning may actually go down. Luckily, Colts fans were not subjected to The Blindside Hit, or The Knee Explosion, or a similar signature "ended the season" moment.  Seeing Tom Brady take his, three years before in the first quarter of the first game after 18-1, made me, a Patriot hater, more sad and disappointed than anything. Yes, it was to a great player and a guy I wanted the Colts to get a shot at, but more so it was another reminder that Manning spins the same wheel.

Since that night, the Colts-Jets playoff game that is, the Colts have fallen from NFL royalty at an astounding rate. Prime time games, normally incredibly entertaining and victorious nights, evolved from humiliations to extinct. 62-7 happened. Jim Caldwell, who I'm sure is a good man, happened. Video evidence exists that Curtis Painter was involved. Rumblings of an inverted perfect season (0-16!) happened. This to a team who, twice in five years with roughly the same core sans #18, had an undefeated record going into their 14th game of the season, with everyone's minds going towards perfection, trophies, and immortal legacies.

Since that night, Bill and Chris Polian were fired, and Bill is now a PUNDIT and mouthpiece on ESPN. If only FFGP2's illustrious street cred could grant it access to a digital video library of just how many times Polian has ripped on exactly these men.

The aforementioned and overmatched Caldwell, since calling one of the dumbest timeouts in someone with a really good memory's memory in the Jets playoff game, was shown the door. He was 14-2 his first year as the head coach just two seasons prior.  The Colts could have sold lottery tickets to pack his bags.

Some burly, white-shirt-with-tie man named Ryan Grigson came over from the Eagles to be the new general manager.  Some guy named Chuck Pagano, who sounds like a wire-tapped informant's fake wiseguy name, came over from the Ravens to be the new coach.

Since Nick Folk's kick ended that season, the likeable, fan-friendly, historically good core from The Manning Era had been gutted and left on the curb like a fish.  90% of the city's jerseys became vintage in an hour, and although it was visibly draining and difficult, you couldn't end an era without ending the man who shares its name.

And so, Peyton Manning was released by the Colts.

And with that, Peyton Manning was a free agent.  He was immediately courted by 3/4 of the league.  Wined and dined, even.  

Since Mark Sanchez won his last playoff game in Indianapolis that January night, Peyton Manning held up a fucking Broncos jersey with a "yeah, I like my second wife, but my first was the love of my life" face.   He's preparing and practicing, relentlessly, to win the Super Bowl...for the Denver Broncos.  It's Indiana-Texas Tech Part Deux, and I would be interested in comparing last season's numbers with this year concerning Broncos games ratings in Indiana homes.

Andrew Luck, who bypassed the draft last year knowing full well he would be the number one pick, was drafted by the Colts, a team--much like the Spurs and Duncan--essentially being historically rewarded for one bad season, and allowing the organization to kick sand in the face of every organization desperately seeking its next (or first) pearly white, cereal box, endorsement-hawking, Lombardi-raising face of the franchise.   People who know say he's the most pro-ready quarterback in the history of the NFL, and how can you argue?  You can't compare the position of quarterback now, in the ESPN Vomiting All Over Itself Era, with any other time in the league's history.  And apparently, this kid is as prepared for the game and the celebrity attached as...well...

The last fourteen months or so have been, roughly in order, incredibly curious, cruel, heartbreaking, hopeful, and, yes, lucky, for Colts fans.  It was so easy to take the winning for granted.  It was so easy to pencil Manning in every game.  More than anything, it was easy to predict the future:  Manning retiring with every record, one or two more trophies, and, the surest bet of all, as a Colt. 

And yet, this is how it works.  I met my newest, unconditionally-loved favorite players the last two days, and will cheer for them because they play in my hometown.  As of this day, I'm fairly certain Andrew Luck will break every NFL passing record, win three to four Super Bowls, and retire a Colt.  Why should I, a crazy fan, not think this?

LeBron's a Cav, Albert's a Cardinal, and Manning's a Colt.

And now, so is Luck.

Something doesn't add up.

Joe Namath Played One Good Game

For the last, oh, I don't know, let's say 14 years, I've cared an awful lot about sports history. Legacies. Whom was better than whom, and what my children and my grandchildren will be saying about today's athletes. This, to me, was important.

For instance, Michael Jordan is widely regarded as the greatest basketball player of all time. Almost no one refutes this, and when someone does, they almost certainly say Bill Russell, to which I make a hint of a Manning Face and say something like, "OK, I guess I'll give you that one." The only thing is--I've never seen Bill Russell play. Never. I've seen grainy black and white YouTube videos, I've read books, and I could throw some stats out, but what does that even mean? That I can pretend to know a player without ever seeing a live game?

Same thing with Jim Brown. "Oh, yeah, man. Jim Brown was fucking awesome. Those shitty YouTube clips of him plowing overmatched white guys down are incredible." Or even, unfortunately--because they were electrifying--Bird and Magic. Sure, I remember some games and moments, but I was three when Magic hit the baby sky hook in the Garden. I've watched entire games online, on DVDs, and ESPN Classic and NBATV, but what I remember most about Magic is the HIV announcement and aftermath, the 1992 All-Star Game, and a handful of games, although even the Finals against Jordan's Bulls--MJ's first title--is hazy to me. Ditto for Bird. I've devoured their respective YouTube videos--practically masturbated to them--yet an ingredient is missing.

I guess what I'm trying to say is--why should some 80-year old dude in Boston who had season tickets to Auerbach's Celtics care what I think about Bill Russell?

An elderly gentleman, probably at the Basketball Hall of Fame, cheesing it up for the camera with what appears to be replica championship rings.

This brings me to the NFL conference championship games. Eight years ago, I would have been heartbroken and pissed after the Patriots took the AFC. It would have easily ruined my night, with a good chance of ruining my week. Two years ago, I would have been the same, and probably would have thought something like, "Goddamnit. Now Brady's won the AFC five times, and Manning's only won it twice. If Brady wins, he'll have FOUR titles, leaving Manning (even at 100%) terribly unlikely to ever catch him."

Now? I'm not going to say I don't care, because I do a little bit. I was, after all, rooting for the Ravens to win the game, but it just doesn't matter as much. Sure, some of you can say, "He got married! His balls are gone! He doesn't care about sports anymore!", but that's not totally it either. I love watching sports now maybe more than ever. Here's the thing:

I've loved the last 14 years of football I've experienced. Growing up with the cellar-dwelling Colts, it was a gift getting Peyton Manning. The dude has won FOUR FUCKING MVP TROPHIES. He's smashed every franchise record, and many NFL ones. The team set a league record for most wins in a decade. Did they flame out in the playoffs a little too much for my taste? Absolutely. Better than having no hope for anything from the get go. Trust me on this one, I live in Washington, D.C. now. Every one of their teams suck.

I have so many memories. Watching live games with one of my best friends for five years. Watching Manning "get over the playoff hump" in spectacular fashion with another best friend. Proudly wearing Colts shit around any city I visited. Bitching about little shit almost every other franchise would have loved to call a problem. Hugging yet another best friend and tearing up when I realized I, unlike so many tortured fan bases in Midwestern cities, would not die without experiencing the feeling of a championship.

And the Patriots? My 20-year old self would punch me in the dick for saying this, but I just don't hate them as much anymore. Brady's pretty goddamn hard to hate, and if I hate anything about Belichick, it's that the Colts didn't handle The Undefeated Season EXACTLY how he did in both '05 and '09. Not really his fault. Sure, he's a smug asshole, but doesn't that make him interesting? Wouldn't you have LOVED to have him as your team's head coach for the last 10+ years?

Now, don't let this fool you: I'm totally rooting for the NFC in the Super Bowl. Just wanted to get that out there.

Speaking of, I'm also going to try and avoid the doom and gloom that is, "Oh, no! If Eli wins, he'll already have one more than Peyton!" What do I care which seat two privileged, millionaire brothers sit in at the family table? I enjoyed the SHIT out of Super Bowl XLII--more so, in game quality, than the Colts' win. Good for him. You know Peyton's rooting for him, and that's good enough for me.

Go ahead--say I'm neutered. Take away my hypothetical fan card. Just know I enjoy watching sports in a different light now. I'm not going to let it shorten my life. After all:

Why should I care what some kid in 2027 thinks of Peyton Manning?

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.