In eight illustrated books, elegantly held together in a single beribboned case, McSweeney's Issue 28 explores the state of the fable. For the next two days, it's $5 off. - - - - |
- - - - THE LAST WEEK OF NFL FOOTBALL I write to you as a man who is sitting at 168-98 for the season. That's not bad, but certainly not amazing. I'm sure Bob Costas has squirreled away more wins than me, and is pontificating somewhere at the moment about the old St. Louis Browns chess team and some missing chocolate-chip cookies. Speaking of which, I never laid into Mitch Albom this year, but was overwhelmed by the stacks of his newest tome, The Thirty-Two People You Meet in Hell, this minute's Chicken Soup for the Self-Satisfied Newspaper Columnist's Soul, at the Border's in Eau Claire, Wisconsin over X-mas. If only Mike Lupica will release a haiku pamphlet or Peter Vecsey will trot out a novelization of his "Charles Barkley is fat" joke, I'll be sure to dive right into it. Scribbling-wise, I wasn't much better for the 2003-04 season. I let you down. I've was trumped by other columnists like Matt Taibbi, who made the season's perfect assessment: "... the set of CBS's NFL Today, normally a happy place where Jim Nantz, Dan Marino, and Deion Sanders good-naturedly midwife the steely idiocy of Boomer Esiason for national television audiences," in the NY Sports Express. I couldn't have said that better myself. Esiason has always been a douche, but it really accelerated this season. He clearly believes his thoughts are fat plums for starving toddlers, when really his assessments are yawn-provoking "whatevs" that make everyone yearn for the next Gillette 97-blade, skyscraper razor commercial. The only person more annoying, Cris Collinsworth, has been a seventeen-alarm jackass during the playoffs. I seemed to have missed out on him for most of the regular season (except of course, when I tuned into the HBO Costas machine). Collinsworth's Seattle at Green Bay performance was summed up perfectly by Jim Cheney from the NY Sports Express, also. This is brilliant commentary: "Fresh off his stay as Idiot-in-Residence with the Royal Shakespeare Company in London, Fox booth-filler Cris Collinsworth returned to cover the Green Bay-Seattle Wild Card game last Sunday. Well into the fourth quarter, Collinsworth noted that Seattle head coach Mike Holmgren, the former head coach of Green Bay, had worked closely with QB Matt Hasselbeck, much as he had worked closely with Packers QB Brett Favre. In making his case for Holmgren having a special knack for teaching and training young team-helmers, Mr. Fantastic said it was like The Taming of the Shrew. Well Cris, no, not really. Honing the skills of young, eager and willing players is somewhat different from molding a comely, yet disobedient daughter of Padua into a subservient wife possessing abundant charm and a significant dowry. Hey, let's leave the literature in the parking lot. It may give your boothmate Troy Aikman another concussion, but you could always throw a little eye of newt his way to cure him up. And one more thing, Cris. Put the 'H' back in your name." Anyway, I had some other mishaps, too: letting Jerry Peshtigo take over (though he went 15-1 one week); not getting Phyllis George or Irv Cross to follow through on interviews—I wanted 1970s NYC + CBS tales; getting nowhere with Aramark, who was supposed to let me inside Giants Stadium to work with beer & hot-dawg vendors on a game day; and failing to talk to mentally troubled ex-Bear and -Cowboy Alonzo Spellman who is serving time for a mishap on a flight. Oh well. The much-ballyhooed league parity provided some fun games—I love getting worked up over millionaires hitting one another—even if I did fixate too much on hating broadcasters Madden, Michaels, Joe Buck, Collinsworth, Aikman, and Esiason. Jim Nantz of CBS is about the only decent fellow in the bunch. Marino takes too much shit for being a lunkhead. Bradshaw we won't even get into. Yes, we will. His well-worn, batshit-as-a-pork-rind routine is running on fumes. It's a shame that media reporters like USA Today's Rudy Martzke continue to champion his demeanor in columns like "Offer the 'Bradshaw Off-the-Wall Award' to Charles Barkley." That is some great insight. Too bad no one cares. THESE "R" MY TERRY BRADSHAW NUT, NUT, NUTTIEST, CRAZIEST MOST INSANE YOWZA GAMES of 2003: Week 2 — Dallas at NY Giants. Giants hand it to them in OT, 35-32. Fassel façade's first fluster. Week 4 — Green Bay at Chicago. Paris Hilton in an Urlacher jersey. Week 5 — Indianapolis at Tampa Bay. Indianapolis gets 329 touchdowns in last three minutes. Week 6 — Kansas City at Green Bay. Green Bay lets KC back in. Horrible, ulcer-inducing game. Week 8 — N.Y. Giants at Minnesota. Beginning of the end for the Vikings. Hilarious. Week 9 — Green Bay at Minnesota. Green Bay hangs on, 30-27. This was a nice evening for me. Week 10 — Chicago at Detroit. The Bears had sort of gotten their shit together. But they feebed it up with a 12-10 loss at the ugly Ford Field. If memory serves me correctly, this was around the time Matt Millen starting using his trillion-dollar vocabulary when describing former players of his. What a class act. Week 11 — Kansas City at Cincy. Cincy is impressive. Week 12 — Seattle at Baltimore. Each team scores over 1,000 points. OT. Seattle cannot seal the deal. Week 15 — New Orleans 45 - NY Giants 7. This game inspired a "we got raped" comment from the Giants, who despite the coaching change will not recover until 2008. Week 16 — Green Bay at Oakland. Sweet Jesus. Week 17 — Minnesota at Arizona. Nathan Poole. Playoffs, Week 1: Seattle at Green Bay. Hasselbeck's Last Stand. I have enjoyed nothing since that day. I know that you already know I will be rooting for the acetaminophen-vibed Carolina Panthers in the Super Bowl. They are so Rudy. Undersized and underwhelming, but faced with knuckleheaded Tedy "One D" Bruschi and Tom "Mr. America" Brady, I am making the only choice I can. But, while I will be rooting for the Panthers, I will predict that the Patriots will win the game: 24-10. I can't risk getting that ninety-ninth loss. Thanks for reading, and if you get worked up in the off-season please checkout my news wire: http://fittedsweats.blogspot.com PS to Mike Francesa—You and I are going to sit down and you are going to learn how to pronounce Holmgren once and for all. - - - - NFC-AFC CHAMPIONSHIPS Last Week: 1-3.
Vermeil Files, Vol. 666 The first time I saw Dick Vermeil cry, I thought: What a jagoff. What is an adult man doing crying about football? The second time I saw Dick Vermeil cry, I thought: Okay, Vermeil. Calm down. And also, what a jagoff. The third time I saw Dick Vermeil cry, I thought: The problem is with you, Johnson. You're the one who has to loosen up. Vermeil is in touch with his feelings. Vermeil has a ring, you don't. Let Vermeil cry. The eighth time I saw Dick Vermeil cry, I thought: Okay, Vermeil. Get on some meds, amigo. Take a deep breath. Let it go. The fourteenth time I saw Dick Vermeil cry, I thought: This is getting weird. The thirty-ninth time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: I had just gotten done polishing off a bottle of Drambuie with him. We were at a golf tournament outside Pawtucket, Rhode Island. He told me he wasn't sure if he'd ever eaten a better salad than the one we'd had at dinner. "Those farmers," he wailed, "who are they? The romaine was exquisite. What are you looking at? If you can't—if a grown man can't enjoy a leaf of lettuce—" The eighty-first time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: It was back on TV. The folks at UW-River Falls, where the Chiefs spend preseason, hadn't followed through on a team-catering request for Rice Krispies. Vermeil was melting down. "Just how tough is it? I'm sorry. I gotta go public with this," the waterworks were on. "My men love their cereal. And now, I don't know what kinda season we're gonna have." The three hundred and fifteenth time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: It was because of a traffic light that he thought was on the verge of burning itself out. I was on a three-speed in Locust Valley, MO, and I saw him pointing and howling from the driver's seat of his Lincoln. "Some family's gonna get killed!" Several cars honked behind him, but he wasn't budging. The nine hundred forty-first time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: I was on a cruise ship. Vermeil was at a press conference. One of his kick-returners kept an adult video late and there was a fine. Vermeil, to that day, was unaware of a phenomenon known as porn. It did not make him happy. The 33,872nd time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: I didn't. It was just an editorial that he wrote for USA Today about the dangers of using magic markers to write kids' names on athletic tape to identify them on football helmets. I assumed he cried the whole time he wrote it. He thought the markers were a bit toxic, that an addiction could develop. The 198,440th time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: It was an Arby's. A packet of Horsey sauce dared him to open it. He could not. The 708,814th time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: He said six words and broke down, "Oh, the majesty of a sauna." The 1,933,336th time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: I only sensed it. God had begun wiping out whole cities with His own vomit. Vermeil's crying caused it. I was in Murfreesboro, TN. We were covered in slime. God had registered his disgust. Vermeil was somewhere, bawling with joy about microwave technology. He stopped abruptly and ate a corn muffin before it cooled. The 174,999,044th time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: He was dead. Vermeil was a damn ghost and he still would not quit crying. He'd met up with Tony Franklin, the old Eagles place-kicker. "How could you have possibly gone through life so darn short, Tony? It just is not fair." The 12,000,000,000th time I saw Vermeil cry: I got a lousy T-shirt. The 38,555,400,093rd time I saw Dick Vermeil cry: It wasn't so much Vermeil as the whole world. A book had been written about Vermeil's penchant for tears. It was called The Vermeil Approach. A religion was involved. Millions of people wept. Of course, looking down and seeing this, Vermeil wept. Indianapolis at New England—New England.
- - - - PLAYOFFS, WEEK 2 Last Week: 4-0. Steve Serby of the New York Post wrote a blow job of a column before last week's playoffs and dug up a bunch of old New York Giants to talk about how crafty Bill Parcells is, and how he'd take his Cowboys into Carolina. It was basically a slow spin down memory lane, harkening back to when Parcells (aka Your Majesty) was with the Giants and was the James "King of the World" Cameron of football and the universe. Except the Cowboys lost. So this week Serby writes a column about how the Cowboys need more good players and have to immediately dump QB Quincy Carter, etc. Parcells, in essence, is still the genius in the whole equation (and by the way, he did do a remarkable job this season, as much as it kills me to say it), it's just everybody else's fault. Fair enough. I mean Serby writes for a New York paper and all. We don't live in Dallas. We don't care about Dallas. But the playoffs are a national event and Serby is a big time columnist, so fair, fair, fair enough. When Parcells waffled and ultimately neglected to take the Tampa job a couple of years ago, Serby wrote a column congratulating him. Telling Parcells he'd done enough already with all his New York success and that he should hang it up. Retire. Then Parcells went out for some Chuckles and a diet lemon-lime Shasta. Serby wrote 17,000 words about how he devoured it. Slurped it. Disposed of his trash properly. Quietly and discreetly belched. Actually, Serby did not. Sorry. Anyway, maybe a guy in Chicago would devote precious column inches to stories about Mike Ditka, or someone in Denver would write continually about Dan Reeves, but I AM TIRED OF HEARING OLD N.Y. BEAT WRITERS FAWN OVER BILL PARCELLS. I think Serby is living in the past. I think he'd like to ride in a sidecar of a motorcycle driven by Bill Parcells. I think he'd like to eat the pork chop remnants from a plate Bill Parcells once used. I think he wants Bill Parcells to grab him and put him in a headlock and tell him it is bath time. For me, TUNA TIME IS OVER. Parcells was a great coach, but he will NEVER win another Super Bowl. Jesus "Montana" Christ could play QB for the Cowboys next fall and they would not get in the Super Bowl. Serby should move out of the past and forget about Parcells. He should go cold turkey on the whole subject of Parcells. He should please stop writing about Parcells now. But no. It is in Serby's best interest to keep alive the dying fervor of 1980s GIANT nostalgia, because he just cowrote the Lawrence Taylor I LOVE CRACK book. And I'm sure that if he can keep the remaining tubby, Joi-sey guidos salivating about sniffing Parcells's old coaches shorts, maybe more people will be compelled to pick up yet another tome about the old days. (Not to mention the fact that if it is a slow news day, the Post sports department can just pen another story about how Bill Parcells would exist in a spider hole. He would make it damn comfy down there. Maybe install a tap that runs fresh fruit juice. Maybe a soft pillow and some soft-batch cookies. Maybe a sink and a regular 1930s-style shaving kit. Maybe a picture of his favorite broad. Maybe a shelf for his pills. Who knows? All I know is that Parcells is smart, sexy, clever, coy, brilliant, has nice hair, and could outswim a walleye, you name it.) Now this: Dear Seahawks QB Matt Hasselbeck, I'm sure that by now you've been scolded (indirectly, via the media) not to make such bold and cocky proclamations in the house that Lombardi built or whatever. You know what I mean. When a square writer or sports anchor tries to be funny by sounding like a no-nonsense old black woman by saying, "You. Do. Not. Do. That. In. This. House." (Actually that was Isaiah Thomas and he wasn't trying to sound funny or old and female, he was talking tough and earnest in his new role as Knicks GM/babysitter and was disgruntled after Timberwolf Latrell Sprewell returned to the Garden and bitched at toothy owner Jim Dolan throughout a whole basketball game a couple weeks back.) (P.S.—Dolan, your teeth kill me. Why invest so much cash in new teeth when you are a homely, homely man? Why? I demand a fucking answer. Yesterday.) And then, the above "our house"-type statement makes you feel bad and look like a dummy, just because you, Matt Hasselbeck, confidently stated, after winning the overtime coin toss at Lambeau Field, that your Seahawks squad was going to score!, thereby knocking the Green Bay Packers out of the playoffs. I know that you, Matt Hasselbeck, as a former Packer, know the reverence and history associated with Lambeau Field. You're probably more familiar and respectful of it than 95 percent of the schmucks who got a good belly laugh out of the interception you subsequently threw, which Packers DB Al Harris ran back for a touchdown. I have sympathy for you. I look at the situation not with a churchlike attitude toward Lambeau Field, or sportsmanship, just more like a young cocky boyfriend coming over to his ex-girlfriend's parents' house around the holidays and ribbing her old man. Just letting things sort of slip away. Really laying into the old man about having to eat salt-free potato chips or wearing generic slippers. Really making the guy uncomfortable. Then the doorbell rings. It's a little neighbor kid. The kid asks, "Does anyone here own a Ford Escort?" You say, casually, "Yeah it's mine, bro." You have way too much hair-gel going. You've been laying out your plans for world domination. The kid says, "Ah," You say, "Not now, junior." And drink more of the old man's wine. The old girlfriend is near tears. The kid looks at you. Shrugs. "Thought I'd tell you it's on fire." The kid leaves. The old man smirks. Get it, Hasselbeck? The kid is Al Harris. The fire is your intercepted pass. The burning Escort is your game. Got it? I got two words for ya: pump fake. Ever heard of it? Here's a tip, it's not a Scottish breakfast cookie. Next time you get an urge to dance around and yuk it up like a sheltered ten-year-old pajamas-wearing geek halfway through your first sugared soda (7-Up) at the Youth Group Sleepover, you know, when the bubbles are sort of going to your head and you're—fuck it—you're feeling very confident about, what? The whole universe! Growing up! Enjoying this beverage! Kicking ass! The Christmas lights! You are feeling frisky. But, Hasselbeck, do not, under any circumstances, audible. You're a good boy. Do not accidentally cut a fart, snicker, and tell everyone, including your parents, you feel "sexy." No matter how much that soda has gone to your little head. No matter how much your special charms feel tingly. Keep it under wraps, dude. Anyway, enjoy your off-season Hasselbeck. Maybe Serby can get you a job interview in Dallas. Tennessee at New England—New England. (Sorry) Carolina at St. Louis—St. Louis. Indianapolis at Kansas City—Kansas City. Green Bay at Philadelphia—Green Bay. - - - - PLAYOFFS WEEK ONE: Last Week: 11-5.
Items Ruined in Tandem as a Result of the Minnesota Vikings Final Play of Regular Season 2004. 1) One human head. Mini-van wheel that was jacked-up and tireless in St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin garage. 2) Girl Scout "Thin Mint" cookie. Esophagus. Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. 3) Selection of non-vintage glassware (full to quarter-full of Hi-C, Miller High Life, spicy V-8, chocolate milk). One 14'x12' of shag carpeting Hibbing, Minnesota. 4) Vocal cords. Ear drums. Various locations. 5) Air-powered popcorn popper. Drywall. Basement, Anoka, Minnesota. 6) 1984 Dodge Omni. 8 human ribs. Mile marker 122, Hwy 53 Wisconsin. 7) 127 Randy Moss posters. Various locations. 8) Poodle's ("Albert") dog dish. Adolescent big toe. Potential soccer career. Woodbury, Minnesota. 9) Glass case of 11 mini-pizzas. 10 mini-pizzas (glass was "rubbed" off of one mini-pizza and consumed by Nacho Powell). Stop & Go. Tempe, Arizona. 10) Most of the Presidential Papers in the Nixon Library. 11 stick matches. Tarzana, CA. 11) "Guernica" painting by Picasso. Two museum security guards. Madrid. 12) 1,204,000 head of cattle. 5,678 barns. Eastern Russia. 13) Kleenex Factory. 11,000 jobs. Lima, Peru. 14) Concept of fair play. The minds of 19 children at Mom's Drunk weekend day care, St. Paul, MN. 15) Field at Sun Devil Stadium. Vikings' Player Chris Hovan's tear ducts. 16) Pacific Ocean. Livelihood and life of over 16,452 species of plants and animals. Tennessee at Baltimore — Tennessee.
- - - - WEEK SEVENTEEN: Last Week: 8-8. (pending Packers "W")
This is Peshtigo again. We've received bad news in threes: 1) Brett Favre's dad is dead.
I will be doing the duties again, and was encouraged by the McSweeney's family—Paul, Mitch, Adam, Ryan, Penelope, Dayton, Abigail, Mike, Jr., and Donreye, to turn in this prestigious NFL column before Tuesday. It's because of the holidays. Egg Nog it, people. We all need some down time. I wanted to wait, so I could be among the first internet scribblers to watch and comment on the Favre performance in Oakland tonight. I was reluctant to write until I had a full grasp on everything surrounding professional football for the dates December 20 through December 22. (Like Joe Namath and his Olympic-style ingestion of sake, or something mind-altering on Saturday night. His comments at halftime of the Patriots vs. Jets game were superbly insane.) But... Not gonna happen. I am responsible and accountable for deadlines. I have to forge ahead. Editor's Note: The following paragraph was written by Mr. Peshtigo prior to Monday night's Packers/Raiders game. No, really. I can predict, as I so often do, with my background in science—I can predict that Mr. Brett Favre will put on a magical show tonight, as his father wouldhave wanted. I am only partially dismayed that much of his performance might be overshadowed by the hyperbole of Al Michaels and John (see Jeff's 1999 predictions) Madden. I know their zeal to pin a story to the evening (let's face it, apart from the emotional drama of recent events this game doesn't mean a whole lot) will override any brilliance we see Mr. Favre deliver. But, like you, I will tune in anyway. I am done with school until January 5th. I will be at one girl's basketball game at the junior high school, working stats, but other than that, my only plans are to shovel snow and shovel in some ham, rolls and the love of my wife. I know if Jeffrey were here he'd tell you something about his favorite events of 2003, but that can wait till next week. By the time you read this, the results of the Green Bay vs. Oakland contest will be old hat, and I may appear very foolish. That's a risk I can live with. For now, in the spirit of this column, love your family, love your friends and even find a smidge of love for those people you hate. People who dwell on petty, sad, horrid things and sit in judgment of us all at traffic lights, on the internet and at ice cream socials. Find a moment to forgive them and move on. Except for Lions' GM Matt Millen. He is a turd. It's Christmas, sports nuts. I have no Peshtigo witticisms to offer other than don't be mean to NFL kickers. Week 17 Schedule
Carolina Panthers at New York Giants—Carolina. Chicago Bears at Kansas City Chiefs—Kansas City. Cleveland Browns at Cincinnati Bengals—Cincinnati. Tampa Bay Buccaneers at Tennessee Titans—Tennessee. Dallas Cowboys at New Orleans Saints—New Orleans. Buffalo Bills at New England Patriots—New England. Denver Broncos at Green Bay Packers—Green Bay. New York Jets at Miami Dolphins—Miami. Indianapolis Colts at Houston Texans—Indianapolis. Pittsburgh Steelers at Baltimore Ravens—Baltimore. Jacksonville Jaguars at Atlanta Falcons—Jacksonville. Philadelphia Eagles at Washington Redskins—Philadelphia. Oakland Raiders at San Diego Chargers—San Diego. Minnesota Vikings at Arizona Cardinals—Minnesota. St. Louis Rams at Detroit Lions—St. Louis. - - - - WEEK SIXTEEN: THE TAUNTING OF JERRY PESHTIGO Last Week: 15-1
Since the only things Jeff Johnson has been writing this season are in the vein of: "Who is that bitch from Survivor who always wears the Boy Scout uniform and cries? I'll give her something to cry about," we'll be leaving the picks to Jerry "The Ace" Peshtigo who had a magnificent track record last week. Oh, Jerry? Here goes: Let's talk taunts. Certainly many of us, a) saw New Orleans' Saints receiver Joe Horn and an accomplice pull a cell phone out from under the goalpost pad after Mr. Horn scored a TD against the Giants Sunday night; Horn then utilized the phone in his touchdown-scoring dance routine. (Chad Johnson of the Bengals scored a touchdown, then held up a clever sign that read as an "Open Letter" to the NFL about his unhappiness getting fined for his creative celebratory gestures. He was promptly fined again.) Or b), have at one time or another been on the business end of a taunt. It doesn't feel very good, does it? In fact, just Monday evening when the wife and I were hunting for an open stall in the mall parking lot, we were taunted. We're just a pair of usually happy, simple Americans. We were only trying to park our vehicle, go inside and buy some presents for our relatives and a mentally ill adult man named Peter, whom I tutor and with whom I also play the odd round of golf. The spot we had our eyes on was just four vehicles from the door. It was -14 below zero. We were focusing on getting Peter a sweater and trying not to tempt ourselves with fantasies of popcorn tins. I'd been thinking of buying one of those 3/splits of cheese, caramel and regular (buttered) ever since we'd really ambushed one of them at the Donaldson's Halloween party. I gorged myself on their popcorn. I don't normally do such things. Before we could park the car and do any of this, however, a carload of teenagers behind us in a Ford Escort wagon honked, and when we looked back, they swerved around us and nosed into the spot we'd hoped to take. The mall was so busy that the only remaining open spots we knew of were at least 200 yards from the door. For a minute, we thought we'd really lucked out, but it was not to be. I turned to my wife to say something like, "Crazy kids," and she grabbed my sleeve and tugged and pointed out the window in the vicinity of their vehicle. I momentarily thought perhaps my wife was worked up because she recognized these little bastards as a group of former students of mine (the non-Ivy Leaguers), but alas, she was pointing frantically because the driver, having stolen our spot and exited his vehicle, dropped his trousers and was mooning us with spread butt cheeks. I gagged. Another one of them yelled, "Peshtigo-o-o-o," in a "Geronimo-type fashion," and yet another started singing "Amore," at the top of his lungs. The line about the moon hitting your eye, and all. The final straw was the fourth boy, moonwalking past the hood of our car, pretending his hand was a cell phone and laughingly jabbering into it. Bad news travels fast, I suppose. Having been completely taunted and gloated-at, we just went home. Couldn't even spot a security guard anywhere. My wife is now afraid of the mall and I guess I don't blame her much. I'm not sure if any of our remaining presents will be purchased or given to loved ones. I really should have written down the license plate and let the cops give the kid an indecent exposure charge. But I figured, hell, two Christmasses have already been ruined, why trash more? I tried to turn a negative into a positive, anyway: Other touchdown taunts (using props) Maybe Patriots coach Bill Belichick will have one of his receivers microwave a bowl of New England clam chowder and pour it on an opposing DBs head? Maybe Kansas City Chief Priest Holmes will lay a sockful of communion wafers on the tongues of fans in front row of the end zone? Maybe Minnesota Viking Randy Moss will have a makeshift cardboard boat constructed and oared by loving fans a la Winkin, Blinken and Nod? Maybe Miami Dolphin Junior Seau will run back an interception for a TD, set the ball down, sit on it, and wait patiently until that horrid mustache he once had grows back? Maybe New York Giant Tiki Barber will score and promptly ask the Referee for a road map because he is in foreign territory? Maybe St. Louis Ram Marc Bulger will run a sneak into the end zone only to be shot (with a cap gun) by Kurt Warner's wife, a la JR from Dallas? Atlanta at Tampa Bay—Tampa Bay. Kansas City at Minnesota—Kansas City. New England at N.Y. Jets—N.Y. Jets (strange but true.) Baltimore at Cleveland—Cleveland. Cincinnati at St. Louis—Cincinnati. Detroit at Carolina—Carolina. Miami at Buffalo—Buffalo. New Orleans at Jacksonville—Jacksonville. N.Y. Giants at Dallas—Dallas. Tennessee at Houston—Tennessee. Washington at Chicago—Chicago. San Diego at Pittsburgh—Pittsburgh. Arizona at Seattle—Seattle. San Francisco at Philadelphia—Philadelphia. Denver at Indianapolis—Indianapolis. Green Bay at Oakland—Green Bay. - - - - WEEK FIFTEEN: Jerry Peshtigo on the Cleveland Browns & Life Last Week: 8-8
In February, Jerry's first chapbook, Jerryisms, will be released. It will be sold via PayPal, and marketed much like the Jeff Johnson book, Ignore the Spread. Jerry hopes to sell upwards of a dozen copies. Details to follow. Announcement before I begin: Please email Indiana Congressman Mark Souder and tell him that you don't think replacing FDR on the dime is a good idea. He wants Reagan. Aren't there bigger problems in the world? This is the dummy's address: souder@mail.house.gov Text: You know last week Jeff Johnson made a point about the Cleveland Browns' being saddled with a QB named Couch? So, on Monday evening, I set my butt down on my own couch in order to watch the first professional football contest of that particular week's matches. I wanted to see if Johnson was just being belligerent, or if there was something to the rotating (and depressing) turn of QBs on the Mistake-by-the-Lake. Cleveland looked luminous. It was the Cleveland I remember from my youth: Eastern Bloc newlyweds open-mouth kissing, canned beer, chilly temps, lots of people with sprains, adult women with rubber-banded braces, grown men with various relishes and half-munched sausage buns tucked in the folds of their obese bellies. The bright lights of the stadium shone on those folks and I could tell they were ready for some football. By the end of the game, even though I am an avid supporter of Mike Martz and his Rams, I was rooting for a Cleveland comeback. I certainly liked the play of #94, sticking it to Marshall Faulk deep in Rams territory. And I enjoyed a particularly vicious hit leveled on an unsuspecting Ram on a kick-return shortly before the end of the first half, but let's face facts people: the Browns and this Couch fellow choked. They had a shot at the end, and they let it slip away. That's what I'm here to discuss today. (a) Facing facts. (b) Choking. For (a) facing facts, I will simply say that the Monday Night game between the Rams and the Browns was my first spectated game in a while (since Turkey Day, really) because I have a real life to attend to, and most of my life, as of late, involves correcting papers of some eighth-grade pupils who haven't made the best use of their time this semester. I have to think of my job before I think of my leisure time. That's the way it works. That's how the bills get paid. And that's the approach I take until sweet retirement. Then I will go to Shoney's, pig out on pudding, walk across the street to Chester's Bar, and get pickled. I have sixteen more years to go until that glorious day. I think I can manage. Anyway, sure, it would be fun to throw my hands up in the air and flunk all the troublemakers. But, in the end, I am afraid that would reflect poorly on Mr. Jerry Peshtigo, as well as the school district I work in. I could also "ignore" the "facts" and pass the students, thereby dropping my problems on someone else—i.e. society at large—and saying, "Here you go, I couldn't do jack-diddly-ring-ding with these dummies." But my gut wouldn't let me get too much rest on that score. That is for sure. Something happens to a guy when he's been named Northern Wisconsin Middle School Health Teacher of the Year once, and Runner-Up sixteen times. That "something" is pride. Honor. Courage. Respect. So, here's what I did: Looked at the newest batch of bad papers on Sunday afternoon, putting responsibility before football. Sat down. Had a cup of hot cocoa. And then, had a really good, long cry. Agh. 15 percent of my class is flunking! They are flunking Health!!! It is not complicated stuff! Where do you apply deodorant? The answer is not "ankle." Gosh, I am well aware of what a "free ride" this class is supposed to be. You think these kids would at least get 75-80 percent in their sleep. Not so. So as a result, I am the Cleveland Browns, fumbling away my chances at educating these kids and maybe getting another award and maybe getting a long, deep whiff of Dr. Sharon Odegaard's perfume as I hit that educators' stage in Menasha, at the Ramada Inn, in the crisply sexual April 2004 air, and say, "I'll take the heavy brass once again for a job well done." Not gonna happen. However, by Sunday night, I came up with a solution. It took all day. My wife, God love her, had to leave the house. Went shopping then to Quizno's or some such. Her last words were, "Jerry, you are a pill." We've since made up. And, FYI, I can't begin to describe my solution. Wouldn't be fair. I've paid a lot of tuition and workshop monies to become the educator I am. Taken a lot of real-life lumps. Lumps you are gonna have to learn on your own. Rest assured, I worked my way through the hurdles. Facing the facts was what got me through my long weekend. Now, here's (b). (b) Getting drunk in New Orleans, with an armful of Mardi Gras beads I am totally willing to dole out. Whoops. That's not it. (b) Choking. You know, when my boy Brett used to play basketball in the YMCA leagues, I would attend every game. He was a quick little bugger, and as a result would get a lot of steals. I'd have my own clipboard at the game, even though I didn't coach. I'd keep track of things, and also bring the classifieds along to look for jobs for my wife. The clipboard came in handy. My point is, when Brett would get a steal and drive the other way, lightning quick, to attempt a layup on his own hoop, I'd often get so excited that I'd scream and shout and shatter that clipboard, and accidentally hurl my arms into my fellow parents, and generally make a real ass of myself. My chant in those days, as soon as Brett cleanly had the ball under his control, was "Driver's Seat, Driver's Seat!" because I wanted to let Brett know that he, in fact, was in the proverbial Driver's Seat and on his way to make an uncontested two points. (Or more! Ever heard of the phrase "and one"?) Well, I'd yell "Driver's Seat" so loud that every child would become startled, the whistles would drop out of the ref's mouths, and Brett would bounce the ball off his knee and out of bounds. My fellow spectators would look at me and shake their heads in disgust. Brett would begin crying, and I'd come out of the stands and go kneel down by his side and tell him two simple words. YOU CHOKED. Then there were a few more words. Like FUCK YOU. And two more: JUST KIDDING. Gotcha again, people. This is too easy. In truth, I'd kneel down and I'd say two words. "Dad's fault." And two more words, "Love ya," and then I went on some pills and everything evened out, even when I caught Brett with a marijuana cigarette at the Krokus and Dokken concert when he was fourteen and I was hired on to do security. I'd made a special, temporary on-site jail and he was one of the first prisoners. And at that moment, I certainly didn't say "Dad's fault." That night I said, "Grampa's dead," because I knew that would freak the bejesus out of his dope-addled little brain and really get him thinking about stuff, and then I'd quietly chortle into a cloth hankie and get back to watching the heavy-metal show. Grampa certainly wasn't dead. He was enjoying an Old Milwaukee and a new wife that was sent to the U.S. of A. courtesy of a little country called Russia. What am I driving at? Two thoughts: (1) My kid choked. He should have enjoyed the weed. (2) If you are the Cleveland Browns, 2004 edition, Grampa is so dead, fellas. And the downer is you don't even have any weed to get you through, unless you are William "Throw Away My Career" Green. Mr. Couch... remember that fourth down on Monday night? Try to hang onto the football, okay? I don't walk down the hallway at school dropping my tests or lesson plan. I hang onto them, 'cause I always know that when I cross the threshold into my classroom I am gonna need them, just as if I were crossing into the end zone. Thanks, Jerry Peshtigo
Atlanta at Indianapolis—Indianapolis. Vick will be big, but his defense won't. Buffalo at Tennessee—Tennessee. Detroit at Kansas City—Kansas City. Bet $44,000. Houston at Tampa Bay—Tampa Bay. Jacksonville at New England—New England. Minnesota at Chicago—Chicago. Pittsburgh at N.Y. Jets—N.Y. Jets. Seattle at St. Louis—St. Louis. San Francisco at Cincinnati—Cincinnati. Baltimore at Oakland—Oakland. Cleveland at Denver—Denver. Carolina at Arizona—Carolina. Dallas at Washington—Washington. Green Bay at San Diego—Green Bay. N.Y. Giants at New Orleans—New Orleans. Philadelphia at Miami—Philadelphia. - - - - WEEK FOURTEEN: Things That Occurred to Me over Last Week: 9-7
1) Let's put a moratorium on QBs named Johnson, can we? Doug, Brad, Rob. Can't someone lend one of these turkeys another syllable? They sound as if they should be comptrollers for a company that makes lawnmower-blade sharpeners. Guys who once a week leave the leftovers at home and "treat" themselves to a Subway sandwich. And these fellows play with as little imagination as their first names indicate, as well. (Yeah, I know my name is Jeff. Sounds like when you clap at a feather pillow to fluff it up. Tough crap.) They couldn't carry Brian Sipe's lunch. F+ 2) Jaguars QB Byron Leftwich rules. B+ 3) Joe Pantoliano sucks. CBS sucks for giving him a show. He is one of the most annoying men in show business. Every time I pick up a magazine, there's always an article about wacky Italian-American actor Joey Pants! Go straight to hell. F 4) Ditto for Victoria Gotti. You are a scrub, lady. F 5) The Packers. Nice going so far. Good gravy. If you don't make the playoffs it's your own fault. C- 6) Cleveland Browns. Glad we gave you another shot at professional football. You're terrible. Four years with a guy named Couch. Brilliant. You got your first Monday Night game since God wore short pants, so try not to stink it up. D+ 7) Arizona Cardinals. Face it. Move to LA. Start over. F- 8) More and more teams incorporating black into their uniforms' color schemes. Lame. F 9) The best sports columnists in the world: Jim Cheney, NY Sports Express (spot-on insight and humor) A Phil Mushnick, NY Post (loves the old days when people had taste and manners, maybe to his own detriment) B Paul Lukas, ex-Village Voice (Uni-Watch guy until the paper killed the one measly sports page. Terrible idea.) Paul: A; Village Voice, F 10) The Bears and the Jets. Too little too late. Kordell is starting to look good again, though. D+ 11) Jim Fassel. Sorry. It seems as if you were an old retriever who is going to be taken behind the barn and shot by a crazy old man. Let's face it. The team gave up on you. Your stars really screwed it up, and Kerry Collins (no star, by the way)? He should go, too. Really. Threw four touchdown passes in all of November. And that includes games against Buffalo, Atlanta, and Tampa Bay. And Tiki Barber? This season isn't done yet, but in 2002 and so far this year combined, he's lost eleven fumbles. You didn't drop those, Jimmy. I see you landing on your feet in someone else's program in '04. Try to quit wincing. It's not very becoming. F 11a) My grammar in that paragraph was atrocious. Sort of like Jay Greenberg of the NY Post. Read him some time for a real puzzle. I will provide the Jay Greenberg Translator later this year. He gets an A+ for entertainment. 12) Minnesota Vikings. There's a funny thing about the football season. It's called "the last ten games." If going 6-0 got you a ring, well, then we wouldn't have to endure taunts from Packers fans about how you've been to the Super Bowl four times and never gotten the job done. C- 13) Miami Dolphins. "Hi, we're the Dolphins. We had the dumbest idea in the world. Brian Griese." Talk about just flushing it all down the toilet. C- 14) New England Patriots. There's still time to screw this up. B 15) Buffalo Bills. Liked your Week 1 performance. Since then you might as well be playing in Canada. D 16) Oakland Raiders. Do you have any players under fifty years old? Your coach is going mental. Ten-to-one his acting-like-he-gives-a-shit, hard-ass routine still doesn't save his job. Jerry Rice, time to hang it up. F 17) Pittsburgh Steelers. I was going to say Cowher is losing his touch. But his 2001 and 2002 campaigns were pretty good. Here's the problem, though: Jerome Bettis. Trade him somewhere warm or cut him. He's got a good year or two left in him, but not in Pittsburgh. D 18) Grape Juice. Does anyone drink this anymore? F 19) Pat Summerall. Do you know Dr. Jack Kevorkian? F 20) Kevin Harlan. Your faux-hysteria is unnerving. F 21) Keyshawn Johnson. Your best years are way behind you. D- 22) Philadelphia Eagles. Zero charm. C+ 23) Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Nice dignity, dudes. F- 24) Houston Texans. No one knows anything about you guys. D+ 25) Denver Broncos. One playoff win this season. Savor it. That's all you're getting. B- 26) Saturday Night Live. Will Forte should do the whole show himself. Tim Calhoun is a genius. A 27) |