Archive for category Sports
Saturday Debate: So, what about the Kentucky Derby?
Posted by Puddin in Saturday Debate, Sports on May 5, 2012
Derby day is upon us, a celebration of the Commonwealth of Kentucky’s fine tradition of breeding beautiful race horses. I think there’s a joke about fast women in there too, but obviously I’m much too high class for that sort of thing.
I can hear you snickering, you know. I’m right here.
Anyway, as with most people, thinking about the Run for the Roses for me usually begins and ends with, “wow, are they kidding with those hats?” Then I start with the bourbon.
Actually, the Derby really makes me think of my grandfather, a horse man if ever there was one. He was first and foremost a tool-and-dye maker, but manufacturing back in The Day was surprisingly a lot like manufacturing today. When there was work, sometimes there was more work you could do, and when there wasn’t, well, the workers were usually the first ones to hit the street. When you’re livelihood can be a little fickle, figuring out how to make a few bucks here and there on the ponies is probably not a bad idea.
With that said, every year before the race I’d call to get his pick, and almost every year he called it right. And he always made sure each of us got a Derby glass for the year.
So for me, yes, the Derby does actually mean something, even if I don’t get too carried away with the race, the parties, or the monstrous, floppy hats.
I’m betting not everyone feels the same, though.
For this week’s Saturday Debate, then, I give you:
The Kentucky Derby: “Grand Old Tradition” or “It’s just old and needs to be shot”
Now, go forth and tell us what you think!
PS: Given the region I live in, I expect plenty of pro-responses here. But I’d hate for anyone to fear a mob-mentally here. So if you find the whole thing foolish, don’t be afraid to speak your mind.
Saturday Debate: The NFL Draft
Posted by Puddin in Saturday Debate, Sports on April 28, 2012
In case your arm has been trapped beneath a rock for the past 48 or so hours and this is the first thing you’ve read after sawing yourself free with a pocket knife (because, duh, who doesn’t check Puddintopia first thing after a little DIY amputation), The NFL Draft got underway Thursday night with all the pomp, ceremony, and melodrama you’d expect from picking unproven athletes to play a professional sport.
By the time of this posting, I think we should (approximately) be though the 872nd round or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some NFL football. But seriously, making a three-day show out of this is like putting money into producing TLC’s next big reality show, “Last Kid Standing: Playground Picks”
Anyway, since we’re knee-deep in the annual display of hyperbole, guesswork, and hype, I figured it would be a great subject for this week’s Saturday Debate. Therefore…
The NFL Draft: Awesome entertainment or yet another sign of our culture in decline?
You know we want opinions to be like…wait, I never really got that analogy. Anyway, feel free to take this week’s poll and maybe even leave an inflammatory comment or two.
Let’s get this debate kicked-off in style!
Pud’n
PS: My apologies for the terrifying hand-made logo used above. But the League of Football in this Nation is, um, particular about it’s copyrighted materials being used without consent. Also, the Puddinette considers it extremely bad form to risk a Cease and Desist letter just for giggles.
Gone fishin’ with the boys
When we were younger, my older brother hated to go fishing with me. Nonetheless, two or three times every summer, we’d go together anyway. Of course, we’d inevitably choose the most sweltering day of the year, when eggs fried in their shells long before they even got close to the sidewalk. So with our too-shaggy hair (as was the custom in the early 80′s) plastered by sweat to our foreheads, we’d grab our beginner’s thumb-button Zebco rod-n-reel combos and a small plastic box of tackle—which included a number of lures we’d never understand or use to any positive effect—and hike a mile or so up and across the “new road” (a four lane, divided highway, so think Frogger-with-fishing-poles) to our pond.
Our pond, of course, wasn’t so much actually ours as it was some farmer’s who we never saw. Frequently, cows would come to visit and hang out while we offered our bait to the water’s fishy denizens. They seemed unimpressed with out fishing prowess.
Did I mention that we might have had to climb a fence or two, at least one of which was barbed, to get there? In retrospect, it’s lucky we didn’t get shot.
Ah…childhood memories.
Anyway, as I said before, my brother hated fishing with me. It’s not that I was troublesome or anything; I clearly wasn’t that kind of little brother. At least, I don’t remember it that way. I suppose he might have a different opinion.
He hated it, though (and will attest to this today, almost 30 years later), because I’d catch a bass or two in the first five minutes of our arrival, typically before he even had a line in the water. Of course, after my lightning-quick success, neither of us would get so much as a tiny bluegill nibble the rest of the day, no matter how long we risked our young lives fishing in Farmer McShotgun’s pond stayed.
The best part of it for me was the pride I’d see later in the eyes of my grandfather, the same one who eventually gave up trying to teach me to color inside the lines, when he came over and gauged my hard-won (read: lucky) catch in the freezer. I didn’t see it at the time, but I realize now that there’s always been some innate connection between fishing and grandfathers.
My father, on the other hand, who had to clean said catch when we returned with a pair of stinking fish that had been flopping in the weeds of the pond-bank in the sun for two hours, was often less than thrilled.
I can’t say I blame him.
Which is, of course, why I was very glad to hear that yesterday’s Annual Cub Scout Fishing Derby would be catch-and-release. No bloody fish guts for me, thankyouverymuch!
The Puddinpop, Mini-Me, myself and their grandfather took our fishing poles and our tackle-box (which still has lures I don’t understand the use of) to a local apartment pond yesterday with the Pack, and we fished to our little heart’s content.
Try not to get too worked up over my sexy pale legs, ladies!
The weather was nearly perfect, albeit a tad gusty, but the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and at about 75 degrees, my hair wasn’t sticking to my forehead. Then again, I don’t really have too much hair anymore. Nothing’s been left to get sweat-plastered to my forehead for fifteen years.
At any rate, we didn’t catch much, just a couple of bluegill early in the day. But I still have my old touch. In fact, I managed to catch a fish with my first cast. I was intending to demonstrate to the Puddinpop how to cast with an open-faced reel, something he’d never used before. So I opened the bail, swung the rod, and loosed the bait into the choppy water.
Two seconds later, I was reeling in the only fish I’d catch all day—and it wasn’t even my rod.
The Puddinpop, of course, thought that catching a fish on a demonstration cast was the funniest thing he’d seen in a week.
I’m pretty sure that, this time, my brother, thirty years later, might have agreed with him.
Pud’n
Everything you need to know about life can be learned from little league
Just a scrimmage, the coach’s email said. Saturday morning at 11 o’clock.
How bad could it be? A small spot of time in the sun on a crisp, spring morning watching the Puddinpop play a lil’ of the ole national pastime would be a pleasant way to start my Easter weekend, right? Maybe I could even do a little reading or plotting (and that’s book plotting, not caper scheming) from the bleachers.
And it’s just a scrimmage right? So…that means, what, like an hour? Hour and a half? Maybe three innings or everybody bats once? We’d be home just in time for lunch, I figured.
Oh, no. No, no, no. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I was treated instead to a full game scrimmage. That means five innings and nearly three hours of kid-pitched little league baseball.
Did I mention that at 10:30 on a cool Saturday morning in early April, some form of protection for my increasingly sparsely-covered head (face too, for that matter) was the furthest thing from my mind? Yeah, it might have been a wise choice, because I’m an awe-inspiring shade of pink right now.
Personally, I think I’m French Rose, but the Puddinette leans more towards cerise.
Sunburn aside, for those of you who’ve never had the privilege, third graders pitching to third graders (many of whom are pitching and/or batting for the first time) is an exhilaration experience. And by exhilarating, I mean, “Holy lord, is it only the 2nd inning!?”
In fact, let it be written that I truly wondered for the first time in my entire life if I am, in fact, a terrible, evil human when I caught myself thinking, “Good night, that kid’s like 2-foot nothing. His strike zone is shorter than my attention span; he’ll walk for sure. Curse this interminable game!”
There may have been sobbing. I’m not saying.
Really, though, it wasn’t that bad. And all my kvetching-for-effect aside, at the end of the top half of the fourth inning, it got even better when I realized that little league baseball is the perfect metaphor for everyday life.
The Puddinpop’s team was in the field with two outs, and facing runners on second and third. The pitcher toed the rubber, went through his motion, and delivered. And like 80% of the other pitches thrown Saturday, it glanced off the catcher’s mitt and rolled to the backstop.
The runner on third broke for home, never looking back.
The catcher popped out of his crouch and dashed for the ball. He snagged it and charged back to the plate. Dropping to his knees and skidding forward slightly, his mitt hit to dirt in front of the plate.
The runner’s foot kicked up a cloud of dust sliding towards it.
Foot met mitt. The umpire shouted, for the first time all day. “He’s OUT!”
The crowd – can you call 12 people a crowd? – erupted in applause and woops of delight.
It was a perfect play, made that much better by the fact that it was probably the fourth such passed-ball attempt to steal home in the game. Each time before, the runner scored because the catcher was still learning how to play the game. And with every instance he got a little coaching and a few words of support about what to do and think about during the game.
And the lessons all came together in a few heartbeats at home plate.
That’s life, to a tee. The entire world around us is fraught with mistakes, critical thinking errors, and foolhardy plans, and we all make plenty of missteps of our own. In the real word, it seems like 90% of the time nothing goes the way it’s supposed to, at least the first time around. But when something goes wrong, you don’t give up, can’t give up; you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get ready for the next pitch, the next plan, the next big moment in your life.
Because one of these times, you’ll get it just right. One of these times, you’ll keep everything in mind and make all the right moves. And that one time, just like when our first-time catcher blocked that runner, you’ll suddenly remember exactly why you put up with all the crap and the screwing up and trying again.
Because every now and then, it comes out perfect. And when it does, the crowd goes wild.
And that’s why we play the game.
Pud’n
Baseball, basketball, and blog posts, Oh My!
As an amateur bloggerist, er, whatever, it is incumbent upon me to attempt to provide an insightful, possibly witty post about something like carpenter ants, last night Game of Thrones premiere, or, I don’t know, how the Puddinette has sworn to curse to the afterlife and beyond if I don’t stop snoring like a hippopotamus with a head cold on a nightly basis. Unfortunately, today there will be no such post.
I’m much to preoccupied with today’s sporting topics to write a decent post. As if UK tipping off for an 8th NCAA National Championship in just under two hours isn’t enough (more on that in a minute), reports from Major League Baseball are saying that the Reds either have already signed or are close to signing Joey Votto to an extension though 2023.
Considering it was nearly a foregone conclusion that Votto would be traded mid-season because, as the 2010 MVP, retaining his services long term would be cost prohibitive for a small market team like the Reds, this is incredibly exciting news. Of course, it could mean that the Reds won’t have to money to pay Brandon Phillips what he’s going be asking at the end of contract this season, but if you can only keep one, I suppose keeping the league MVP is a good place to start.
So, with Opening Day a mere three days away and now this, it’s hard not to think about baseball constantly.
Then again, there is the whole matter of the NCAA Tournament Championship game tonight. The Wildcats are favored, and let’s all be honest here, it’s completely their game to lose. Still, anything can happen in one game (see: 1980 Olympic Gold Medal Hockey game), so it’s a bit early to start measuring for that new banner for Rupp Arena.
None of that is my problem, though. My problem is that I’ve only got about an hour and a half to decide if I’m going to watch the game. I know, I know, how can I not? But if you’ll recall, I’m not the luckiest penny when watching UK basketball games. I haven’t seen a game since the end of the SEC Tournament, and that’s worked out pretty well so far. Then again, can I really not watch the game with an 8th Championship hanging in the balance? What could I possibly do with myself during that time if I didn’t, and could I look at myself in the mirror as even a moderate UK fan in the future?
But…but.
What if I watched the game and the unthinkable happened (words I will not even commit to print)? My son, a hardcore member of the Big Blue Nation Youth, is shivering with delight as tip-off gets closer. His eyes are alight with the kind of religious fervor typically only seen in perspiring young men at country tent revivals and old ladies watching hypocritical televangelists begging for Nanna’s Social Security check. He knows about my, um, history watching UK play on TV. I’m not sure I could live with myself if I had to watch that excitement in his eyes change, to be leveled with a look of bitter accusation*.
I guess I need to make up my mind soon. Either way, though, I have to make sure I’m ready at the end of the game. Win or lose, I’ve got an old loveseat in the basement that I’m prepared to lug upstairs and out into the streets of suburbia. Because one way or the other, there’s probably going to be furniture set on fire in the streets of the Commonwealth tonight*. And like they say, when in Rome…
Regardless, as you can see, my mind is pretty busy tonight. Not time to put together a post.
Except, um, I guess I already wrote one.
Good luck, Wildcats! Do us proud!
Pud’n
*I really wish that was a joke
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Reason #316 Having Kids Rules: NCAA Tournament Exile (or, My Wildcat Conundrum)
In roughly an hour, the University of Kentucky Wildcats will be tipping off against the Hoosiers of Indiana University in a NCAA tournament rematch of the only regular season game UK lost this year. As a nearly* lifelong resident of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, it’s obligatory that I watch the game and cheer the cats to (hopefully) victory.
But I won’t be watching.
Now, put down that pitchfork, Buford. And don’t be calling your buddies to come give me a visit, because trust me, I know full well about my responsibilities here. What you don’t realize is that, well, I’m kind of not allowed to watch. In fact, you don’t want me to watch.
See, I’m bad luck.
Hey, roll your eyes all you want. I know it sounds ridiculous. Obviously the universe hasn’t somehow cosmically-linked UK’s basketball program to my attention span. Not that such a thing is really possible, anyway. My attention span disappeared something like a decade ago and hasn’t had even the common decency to so much as send me a postcard with a sunny shot of the picturesque Italian coast signed, “Wish you were here! – A.S.”
Anyway, for some reason, teams I want to win, that ought to win, often don’t win when I’m watching. Don’t believe me? You’re not the first. Some friends of mine didn’t either, until they tested that assertion years ago in Vegas. Georgia was playing while we were there and everyone wanted the Bulldogs to lose (it was UK-related somehow, but I don’t recall the particulars—it was Vegas, after all, I’m lucky I remember even being there). Long story short, said buddies pooled a few dollars, handed them to me, pushed me towards the Sports Book, and urged me to take Georgia to win.
Which I did and then watched the game, smirking.
And, indeed, Georgia lost.
I admit that even I think the whole thing is silly. Every now and again I’ll have a lapse, or well, a moment of general reason, and I’ll sit down and actually watch a UK game. I did that just this year, actually. Recently. The ‘Cats were up on Vanderbilt with time winding down in the SEC Championship game. Vandy then proceeded to go on a 16-2 run and UK couldn’t buy a basket, and free throw, or, hell, an old, bruised tomato from a road-side stand. What started as a 7-point lead ended up a 7-point deficit, and my UK basketball-watching privileges were once again revoked.
Look, I don’t care how silly it sounds; I’m not risking the wrath of the Big Blue Nation just because I want to watch the game.
Luckily, I have children. And I’m raising them with the proper respect for the important things in life. Like Wildcat fandom. So, yes, the Puddinpop will be glued to that game from tipoff to the final buzzer. Scoring updates will be convenient and frequent.
And there you have Reason #316 Having Kids Rules: they can watch stuff for you and give you real-time summaries.
Now then, let’s get on with winning #8. Go ‘Cats!
Pud’n
*I was born in Indianapolis and lived there for the first six months of my life. Yes, I am a closet IU fan. Don’t look at me like that; it means nothing in the face of my allegiance to UK.
The changing of the seasons, Batter Up!
Yes, the weather has already been discussed, covered, hammered into the ground, and beaten to death for a season just a handful of days old. We all agree: it’s oddly warm for this time of year. That’s that, then and now you can relax. I’m not going to ramble on and on and on and on and on again about how it really probably shouldn’t have been 80 degrees every day this week. You know, being March and all.
Indeed, this post isn’t about the changing of that season, it’s about the changing of the sports season. Put me in, coach, I’m ready to play.
I suppose some of you might take exception here, since we’re still smack dab in the middle of the NCAA tournament, Opening Day is still a couple weeks off, and the NBA and NHL haven’t even started their respective playoffs yet. Come to think of it, both of those leagues better get started the that regard pretty darned soon; if I recall correctly, diamonds are formed faster than either gets to a championship series. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I heart me some hockey playoffs.
Still…wait, what was my point? Oh yeah, the sports seasons. Yeah, I realize it doesn’t yet seem like we’ve reached The Change, but believe you me, we have.
How do I know? Because I’m at this very moment writing this post on my phone—which, by the way, given the size of my fingers compared to my phone keys is like stabbing at a 19th century typewriter with a wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano—seated precariously in an aging, rickety set of bleachers watching the Puddinpop practice fielding grounders with his new knothole team.
Of course, it hasn’t even hinted at rain all week, let alone have the audacity to threaten precipitation. But as I wait here, contemplating the possibility that whatever unholy metal these bleachers are forged from may actually be the hardest substance on the planet (perhaps that same stuff that went into the One Ring), dark clouds are rolling overhead and the wind is picking up. I mean, nothing like flying monkeys, ruby slippers, or “I’m going to get you, my pretty” kind of windy, but the cooling gusty more-than-a-breeze type of thing that seems to be a harbinger of stormy weather.
Last week’s practice was already rained out, so it’d be nice if the team could get through at least one session early in the year. It’s always a plus when the coach knows the kids’ names before the first game. Last year, I seem to recall that easily half of the season’s practices were canceled and the list of postponed games ending up as long as my To-Do list after the Puddinette’s had a few days alone in the house.
Come to think of it, with early spring being when kids should do most of the learning part of playing baseball, its astounding any of them ever actually manage to figure out which end of the bat you put on the ball.
I guess that’s why for the first few years, a kids’ game can last even longer than the NBA playoffs.
And just think for all that time, I’ll be riding these same bleachers, which are undoubtedly a more notorious torture device than anything designed in the dark ages.
Play Ball!
Pud’n
A Super Bowl Sunday timeline for the unengaged football fan
Even though Super Bowl XLVI turned out to be a pretty darned solid game of football all the way around, I was pretty much, well, meh, about it for most of the day. It’s no one’s fault, really, it’s just that I generally dislike both the Giants and Patriots. Not having an obvious team to root for kind of takes the shine off the game.
Basically what I’m getting to is that we didn’t make any big plans. In my youth, I wouldn’t have let a Super Bowl Sunday slip past without a day-long endurance test to see who could eat the most unhealthy crap, drink the most beer, make it to the end of the game mostly conscious, and still show up for work on time the next morning.
But that was my youth, before I had four kids. Don’t get me wrong, if Hell had frozen over, pigs and/or donkeys flew, and/or the End Times were upon us and the Bengals were playing today…
*pauses for laughter to subside*
*waits*
*check clock*
*waits some more*
*does taxes*
Ahem. Got that out of your system, now?
Ok, anyway, if that were the case, I’d have been all about a game-time shindig to make college frat parties look like high tea. But obviously, we’re safe on that count. So instead of trying to rearrange the school-night schedule for a game that ultimately makes no difference to me, I figured we’d just cool it today, and catch the game but not make a big thing of it.
A fan with a stake it had a day that probably looked something like this:
6:00 AM: Put game time ribs on smoker
10:00 AM: Put on your favorite team jersey and the Sunday underwear you’ve been wearing all season; find lucky football, super-glue it to you hand
12:00 Noon: Buy ALL THE BEERS
1:00 PM: Turn on that awesome pre-game show. Get stoked to learn about your team’s third-string QB’s grandmother’s kidney surgery. Be glad they have time to tell the story right.
2:00 PM: Start drinking ALL THE BEERS
Afternoon: Stuff pie-hole, repeat. Dips (the cream cheese industry lurves the NFL), finger foods, RITZ crackers
6:00 PM: RIIIIIIIBS! (probably some chicken wings too, right?)
8:00 PM: Two words – Alka. Seltzer.
8:05 PM: More BEERS
10:00 PM: Cheer/sadface your team as appropriate
10:30 PM: Face down on the shag carpet, in a a pile of Cheetos
I know, right? Sounds like an awesome day. Well, until you wake up with Cheetos imprinted in your forehead, your brain being squeezed in an industrial press, and a case of cottonmouth that Lake Erie couldn’t comfortably address. But if your team won, at least you’re cool with the aftermath. If they lost, though, well, that sucks double, almost as much as being a Bengal fan.
Ahem.
As a Bengal fan, then, what did I do with my Super Bowl Sunday?
6:00 AM: Barely awake, shuffle outside with the dog on a leash, cursing the sinister Gods of Early Weekend Morning. Grumble that instead of putting hickory on a smoldering fire and seasoned meats in a smoker for tasty consumption later (like some lucky fan with a good team), I’m standing in the cold, bleary-eyed, waiting for my pooch to pop a squat, which she’ll undoubtedly do at the most inconvenient time possible—like when that pair of grannies power-walks by with agonizing slowness, sniffing in disgust.
10:00 AM: Put on go-to-church clothes; go to church. Because the only way the Bengals will ever make it is with help from the Big Guy
12:00 PM: Post-church lunch at the Mexican place in the strip mall. Because you don’t want to eat anything today that might subconsciously support on team or the other. Pizza? Out. Italian? No good. Chowdah, oystahs, seafood of any kind? Oh no. A plate of carnitas, though, is a perfectly safe alternative. Also, Mexican has equivalent heartburn potential to most the foods those other party people are having, so you can play along!
1:00 PM: Check the guide on TV, realize pre-game coverage starts 5 hours before game time. Seriously, what is this nonsense? FIVE hours!? On top of everything from the past two weeks? What could they possible do with all that time? They’ll end up having to interview some player’s best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend who heard from this guy who knows this kid who’s going with the girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night*.
3:00 PM: Drop the dog off at the groomer for a quick bath/brush/nail clipping. Because when a dog stinks, it doesn’t matter what day it is. Oh, and it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do anyway.
Afternoon: Strategically avoid the piles of laundry that are mocking you and your lame, non-Super Bowl, semi-pro NFL football team. Attempt to take a nap. Fail. Instead, internally debate whether Super Bowl Sunday is enough of a holiday to override the recently enacted “No beer on a work night” rule. One additional look at that sarcastic a$$hole pile of laundry and the decision is made. Also, you need the beer to make to chili. Yes, of course you need beer for chili (as both an ingredient and a cooking aid). What kind of heathen are you?
6:00 PM: For the kids, pretend you are at a party, including the ubiquitous chips and dip, a few appetizers, and the obligatory bowl of Super Bowl chili. Seriously, I don’t care who you, but if you’re planning to watch the coin toss without a proper bowl of red (beans optional), you’re either a communist, a terrorist, or a Smurf. Either way, you’re not in my will.
8:00 PM: Two words – Alka. Seltzer. What? Did you not notice the combination of Mexican and chili? As if the gastric irritation isn’t enough, time to process the kids through the standard bath/bedtime ritual, keeping one eye on the game (since it was a good one and all).
8:05 PM: BEERS!
10:00 PM: Sigh wistfully that another NFL season is over and now it’s time for the long, bleak wait for MLB Opening Day.
10:05 PM: MOAR BEERS!
12:00 Midnight: Snoring like a baby…wait, no, that’s the wrong simile. Well, whatever. Sleep tight, NFL fan. Only two months to the draft.
I guess when you look at that way, I’m trading the ribs for not having a hangover. I’d say that’s a pretty worthy exchange.
Perhaps being an unengaged fan isn’t so bad after all.
Besides, the commercials were pretty good, now matter who won.
Pud’n
*A “Ferris Bueller” quote seem appropriate tonight.
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