WEEK 8
In the wake of my abysmal ability to correctly predict NFL games, I’d like to accept full responsibility by blaming my teachers. In fact, I’m quite at home blaming them for every single one of my shortcomings. And you can too! Here’s how: regardless of our educational backgrounds, haven’t we long been ingrained with the belief that “it doesn’t matter which side you pick, as long as you present an effective argument”? We’ve all been told this, especially when it came to answering essay questions. Under this dystopian system, students can actually write an entire term paper about how the Civil War had absolutely nothing to do with slavery and get a perfect score. Unfortunately, placing a premium on cogency has proven woefully inadequate in preparing us for football and the real world, where the opposite is true and the bottom line is everything.
Just look at this past week. I spent plenty of time analyzing the Eagles-Jaguars and concluded the Eagles would win based on a number of logical premises. The Jags were missing three Pro Bowlers on defense (Marcus Stroud, Reggie Hayward, Mike Petersen), were starting their backup quarterback, were on the road, were coming off a shellacking by Houston, and were facing a team that could easily be 7-0, save for two 4th quarter collapses and a 62-yard FG. Had someone asked me to write an essay on why the Eagles would win, I probably would have gotten an “A” (depending on my thesis statement and my works cited page). As it happens, the Jaguars not only won, they embarrassed the Eagles, and I get a zero. This season has made so little sense that when teams like the Jets and Saints played on Sunday like they were originally supposed to, it’s shocking all over again.
I know you’re expecting me to now start crying about the Panthers game last night, but…that’s EXACTLY what I’m going to do. The Panthers blew coverage assignments, dropped passes, dropped kicks and punts, dropped out of contention, and basically dropped a steaming, fetid TURD all over BoA Stadium last night. And that gigantic flushing sound you hear are playoff expectations going right down the toilet throughout North Carolina. It’s really impossible to overstate how disgustingly embarrassing that performance was.
You know what’s really frustrating about this whole thing? Everyone was so fixated on the Parcells/Jerry Jones/Drew Bledsoe controversy, there was almost an inertial aspect of it to overcome. So when it became obvious that the real storyline of the game would not be the Cowboys’ demise, but instead it would be the Panthers’ spectacular choke-job, no one had any prefabricated commentary prepared. Even after the Cowboys took the lead, Maddon and Michaels were still talking about how “out of it” Parcells looked.
By the way, I stand in awe of Duane Charles Parcells. I’m now convinced he pulled the Tony Romo switch at halftime last week and let him flounder on national television specifically to lull Panthers Nation to sleep. And I fell for it all the way. After last week’s clumsy mess against the Giants, I was positively salivating at the prospect of Dallas taking their circus over here—how could you not? But it’s hard for me to be too upset with Tuna. Growing up a Giants fan, he was personally responsible for one of the happiest moments of my life (Super Bowl XXI win, snow day the next day—what more could a 4th grader ask for?). All I can do is offer a firm handshake; I know when I’m beaten.
On a more sober note, the Panthers gave up 270 yards to a backup quarterback, surrendered 28 4th-quarter points, got shut out over three quarters, and destroyed two couch pillows in anger (okay, that last one was actually me). It’s time to officially lower my standards for this team. The defensive line has two bona fide duds (Komeaotu and Jenkins); the linebackers pulled a Chicago Cubs-Woods/Prior routine and stupidly bet everything on fragile Dan Morgan; and Ken Lucas and Chris Gamble—so magnificent last year—have come crashing back down to Planet Reality. Meanwhile, the offense was never particularly special to begin with. Face it, last year’s honeymoon is over, and I’m stuck in yet another masochistic, emotionally-abusive relationship with a disappointing sports team. But I will go down with this ship. I won’t put my arms up and surrender. They’ll be no white flag above my door. I’m in love, and always will be…
Defensive Player of the Week: Shawne Merriman. 3 sacks, no positive drug tests (one less than last week).
Offensive Player of the Week: Michael Vick, the NFL’s Human Hedge Fund. High-risk, high-reward, ride the bullish Vick market as long as you can. Enjoy the obligatory two weeks’ worth of USA Today articles detailing how he’s made all these "adjustments," then sell high before the bubble inevitably bursts. (Note: I could also have selected Peyton Manning as the PotW and simply cut-and-pasted last week’s description of his performance here. The man is incredible.)
Monday, October 30, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
Charlotte Bobcats 2006-2007 Team Preview
I should probably begin this analysis with a polemic on why I am qualified to assess our orange-clad Quadrupeds of Destiny. Well, I can sum it up with two words, four numbers, and one hyphen: January 11th – February 1st. This refers to that grizzly stretch last season when the Bobcats lost a staggering thirteen games in a row, "culminating" with a 10-point loss to Atlanta, for god’s sake. I watched every last painful minute of this stretch—every missed shot, every inadvertent ball hitting an un-alert Matt Carroll in the face, every Bernie Bickerstaff head-slap of frustration, every uncomfortable moment of commentator Matt Devlin attempting to talk “jive”—all of it. One of the games I actually taped. Need I say more? I love this team on a Glenn Close/Fatal Attraction level.
Even more crazy is the fact that I’m actually eager and thankful to cheer for this team. How is that possible, you ask? Simple: I used to be a Knicks fan. Growing up in the suburban NYC-area, I cut my teeth on the grittiness of Xavier, Patrick, and Starks, only to watch in disillusioned shame as the Knicks matched, overtook, and have now lapped their MSG-roommates the Rangers in horrific free-agent overpayments. Thus when I relocated to quaint little North Carolina a few years ago, it was time to start afresh with a new home, a new career, and a new NBA (and NFL) team. Granted, the Knicks and football Giants pushed me out as much as the Bobcats and Panthers pulled me in.
Even when I move back to New York next year, I’m staying true to the Bobcats and Panthers. I’m pretty sure my time here in North Carolina will mark the greatest epoch of my lifetime: I got married, enjoyed the carefree times of grad school, and basically took a nice long swim in Lake Me. So I’ll be commemorating my blissful period in this land of lush foliage via everlasting love of its sports franchises…assuming Bob Johnson doesn’t pull the plug, sell the team, and they end up being, like, the Las Vegas Aces or something. Christ, what then for me, back to the Knicks!? Let’s talk about this team before I slit my wrists...
FRONTCOURT
Last year, rebounding killed us. We ranked 24th in the league in rebounds/game, and we were particularly atrocious in defensive rebounds. The reasons for this aren’t exactly mysterious, considering Emeka Okafor (10.0 RPG) missed 56 games and goofy center Primoz Brezec (5.6 RPG) has the approximate upper-body strength of Napoleon Dynamite. If only Sean May and Brezec could conduct some kind of body-fat transplant, the two would even each other out nicely. Speaking of May, he’ll need to step up his 4.7 RPG somehow, and playing more than 23 games would be a good start. It got kind of annoying to see him sitting on the bench every night in dress-casual with a vaguely diagnosed “bad knee,” looking somewhat less than remorseful about not suiting up. Meanwhile, Gerald Wallace, all 6-7” of him, ended up playing a considerable amount of time at the 4 with the two NCAA golden boy champs sitting out. He did a pretty decent job (7.5 RPG) thanks to his athleticism and hustle, but obviously this is not his optimal spot. Melvin Ely also got plenty of run from the injuries and has a decent post-up game, but he tended to collect his third foul roughly midway through the first quarter, resulting in a pretty feeble 4.9 RPG. Ely is definitely not starter material at this time. Rookie Adam Morrison will hopefully see lots of time at the 3, but he’s not exactly known for his rebounding prowess. So the bottom line is, May and Okafor need to assert themselves on the boards (rather than the fast food line). Maybe they can work out a scheme where Morrison distracts opponent would-be rebounders with his mustache, or have Brevin Knight hop on Brezec’s shoulders—I don’t know, get creative with it…
All right enough about rebounding, because as putrid as it was, the shooting was even more foul. The ‘Cats were dead last in shooting percentage last year. A few of the bigs actually have some nice touch though. During his brief stay on the active roster, May displayed a pretty rainbow shot and some soft-touch banks--Brezec too. In fact, even though I like to tease him, Brezec (12.4 PPG) is all hustle, running around with his arms constantly up and his head on the swivel, looking comically similar to a 7th grader trying his hardest on a fundamentals drill at practice. And for whatever reason, there’s this spot about 12-feet off to the right side of the hoop where he literally does not miss (though it can be maddening to wait for his high-arcing shot to finally come back down and reenter the atmosphere). And Ely has the ability to back his way in for an easy turnaround layup. Assuming they stay healthy, the Forwards are big, solid, and youthful upfront.
I guess I should also mention 27-year-old rookie Walter Herrman, except—quite honestly—I have no f---in’ idea who he is. Apparently, he’s 6-9”and he put up 10.5 PPG last year, but this was in a Spanish league, and that’s like telling me you’ll give me 8 million Russian rubles; I have no idea what that’s worth. Coach Bickerstaff recently referred to his foot injury as “a good thing”—huh? Doesn’t sound like Ely’s backup job is in danger. The other “major” acquisition was getting-long-in-the-tooth Othella Harrington, who along with hulking Jake Voskuhl, should be good for mop-up minutes.
BACKCOURT
The main question here is how to configure everyone. Last year it started with dependable Brevin Knight on point and Raymond Felton subbing in for him. Then it flip-flopped. Then they were both out. Then Matt Carroll would randomly act like he’d just shot-gunned a six-pack of Red Bulls and either make or grab his own rebounds for 10 3’s in a row while running 5 windsprints at full speed around the perimeter. Coach Bickerstaff would shrewdly ride Carroll’s bender as long as he could and then sub in for him once he went into withdrawal. This year, I think Morrison’s play will dictate things—will he start or sub, and will he better at the 2 or 3? Depending on where Morrison ends up, Wallace will fill the gap. Knight and Felton at the 1-2 concurrently actually isn’t so bad, it just makes for a thin bench.
Part of the logjam has also been handled by thankfully saying goodbye to Kareem Rush, who basically ran around last year with the trigger permanently off “SAFE,” a threat to fire from anywhere on the court at any time. Rush was probably the single biggest reason our shooting percentage was so woeful. Felton, like Rush, would also occasionally get in his head that he’s Deadeye Dick last year. In fact, the worst thing in the world would be when he did hit a long range jumper early, because he tended to think it gave him carte blanche to fire at will for the next 5-6 possessions. But I really need to just show Felton some love—much as it pains me to respect a Tar Heel! Raymond got better and better as the season went along last year, and from February on he proved he could actually take games over. He’s got a kind of awkward, straight-up dribbling style, but he can flat-out fly up the court. Even though it probably doesn’t sound like it, I’m really excited about his accelerated progression along the learning curve.
The two primary backups, Bernard Robinson and Kevin Burleson, did well in emergency extended playing time last year with Knight missing 23 games. If nothing else, they provided some unintentional comedy by allowing us to see Coach Bickerstaff—who clearly would not have been playing them nearly as often otherwise—look increasingly exasperated. They’re also both jacked.
And finally…don’t forget the steals! Last year Wallace and Knight finished 1-2 in steals—what! Oh yeah, I said it, what! It’s a scrappy bunch, I just someone like Morrison doesn’t go too far and pull a Reggie Evans, if you catch my drift.
I honestly believe that 8th seed in the playoffs is not an unrealistic goal for these guys. Hey, we did take 26 last year and that was with substantial injuries. It’s also no secret that with the exception of the Central Division, the East isn’t particularly deep. Figure someone from the Atlantic will go (basically because someone has to), the Central could conceivably send everyone, and the Heat should be a shoo-in from the Southeast. That leaves us scrapping with the Magic and Wizards for the right to get swept in the first round…
Even more crazy is the fact that I’m actually eager and thankful to cheer for this team. How is that possible, you ask? Simple: I used to be a Knicks fan. Growing up in the suburban NYC-area, I cut my teeth on the grittiness of Xavier, Patrick, and Starks, only to watch in disillusioned shame as the Knicks matched, overtook, and have now lapped their MSG-roommates the Rangers in horrific free-agent overpayments. Thus when I relocated to quaint little North Carolina a few years ago, it was time to start afresh with a new home, a new career, and a new NBA (and NFL) team. Granted, the Knicks and football Giants pushed me out as much as the Bobcats and Panthers pulled me in.
Even when I move back to New York next year, I’m staying true to the Bobcats and Panthers. I’m pretty sure my time here in North Carolina will mark the greatest epoch of my lifetime: I got married, enjoyed the carefree times of grad school, and basically took a nice long swim in Lake Me. So I’ll be commemorating my blissful period in this land of lush foliage via everlasting love of its sports franchises…assuming Bob Johnson doesn’t pull the plug, sell the team, and they end up being, like, the Las Vegas Aces or something. Christ, what then for me, back to the Knicks!? Let’s talk about this team before I slit my wrists...
FRONTCOURT
Last year, rebounding killed us. We ranked 24th in the league in rebounds/game, and we were particularly atrocious in defensive rebounds. The reasons for this aren’t exactly mysterious, considering Emeka Okafor (10.0 RPG) missed 56 games and goofy center Primoz Brezec (5.6 RPG) has the approximate upper-body strength of Napoleon Dynamite. If only Sean May and Brezec could conduct some kind of body-fat transplant, the two would even each other out nicely. Speaking of May, he’ll need to step up his 4.7 RPG somehow, and playing more than 23 games would be a good start. It got kind of annoying to see him sitting on the bench every night in dress-casual with a vaguely diagnosed “bad knee,” looking somewhat less than remorseful about not suiting up. Meanwhile, Gerald Wallace, all 6-7” of him, ended up playing a considerable amount of time at the 4 with the two NCAA golden boy champs sitting out. He did a pretty decent job (7.5 RPG) thanks to his athleticism and hustle, but obviously this is not his optimal spot. Melvin Ely also got plenty of run from the injuries and has a decent post-up game, but he tended to collect his third foul roughly midway through the first quarter, resulting in a pretty feeble 4.9 RPG. Ely is definitely not starter material at this time. Rookie Adam Morrison will hopefully see lots of time at the 3, but he’s not exactly known for his rebounding prowess. So the bottom line is, May and Okafor need to assert themselves on the boards (rather than the fast food line). Maybe they can work out a scheme where Morrison distracts opponent would-be rebounders with his mustache, or have Brevin Knight hop on Brezec’s shoulders—I don’t know, get creative with it…
All right enough about rebounding, because as putrid as it was, the shooting was even more foul. The ‘Cats were dead last in shooting percentage last year. A few of the bigs actually have some nice touch though. During his brief stay on the active roster, May displayed a pretty rainbow shot and some soft-touch banks--Brezec too. In fact, even though I like to tease him, Brezec (12.4 PPG) is all hustle, running around with his arms constantly up and his head on the swivel, looking comically similar to a 7th grader trying his hardest on a fundamentals drill at practice. And for whatever reason, there’s this spot about 12-feet off to the right side of the hoop where he literally does not miss (though it can be maddening to wait for his high-arcing shot to finally come back down and reenter the atmosphere). And Ely has the ability to back his way in for an easy turnaround layup. Assuming they stay healthy, the Forwards are big, solid, and youthful upfront.
I guess I should also mention 27-year-old rookie Walter Herrman, except—quite honestly—I have no f---in’ idea who he is. Apparently, he’s 6-9”and he put up 10.5 PPG last year, but this was in a Spanish league, and that’s like telling me you’ll give me 8 million Russian rubles; I have no idea what that’s worth. Coach Bickerstaff recently referred to his foot injury as “a good thing”—huh? Doesn’t sound like Ely’s backup job is in danger. The other “major” acquisition was getting-long-in-the-tooth Othella Harrington, who along with hulking Jake Voskuhl, should be good for mop-up minutes.
BACKCOURT
The main question here is how to configure everyone. Last year it started with dependable Brevin Knight on point and Raymond Felton subbing in for him. Then it flip-flopped. Then they were both out. Then Matt Carroll would randomly act like he’d just shot-gunned a six-pack of Red Bulls and either make or grab his own rebounds for 10 3’s in a row while running 5 windsprints at full speed around the perimeter. Coach Bickerstaff would shrewdly ride Carroll’s bender as long as he could and then sub in for him once he went into withdrawal. This year, I think Morrison’s play will dictate things—will he start or sub, and will he better at the 2 or 3? Depending on where Morrison ends up, Wallace will fill the gap. Knight and Felton at the 1-2 concurrently actually isn’t so bad, it just makes for a thin bench.
Part of the logjam has also been handled by thankfully saying goodbye to Kareem Rush, who basically ran around last year with the trigger permanently off “SAFE,” a threat to fire from anywhere on the court at any time. Rush was probably the single biggest reason our shooting percentage was so woeful. Felton, like Rush, would also occasionally get in his head that he’s Deadeye Dick last year. In fact, the worst thing in the world would be when he did hit a long range jumper early, because he tended to think it gave him carte blanche to fire at will for the next 5-6 possessions. But I really need to just show Felton some love—much as it pains me to respect a Tar Heel! Raymond got better and better as the season went along last year, and from February on he proved he could actually take games over. He’s got a kind of awkward, straight-up dribbling style, but he can flat-out fly up the court. Even though it probably doesn’t sound like it, I’m really excited about his accelerated progression along the learning curve.
The two primary backups, Bernard Robinson and Kevin Burleson, did well in emergency extended playing time last year with Knight missing 23 games. If nothing else, they provided some unintentional comedy by allowing us to see Coach Bickerstaff—who clearly would not have been playing them nearly as often otherwise—look increasingly exasperated. They’re also both jacked.
And finally…don’t forget the steals! Last year Wallace and Knight finished 1-2 in steals—what! Oh yeah, I said it, what! It’s a scrappy bunch, I just someone like Morrison doesn’t go too far and pull a Reggie Evans, if you catch my drift.
I honestly believe that 8th seed in the playoffs is not an unrealistic goal for these guys. Hey, we did take 26 last year and that was with substantial injuries. It’s also no secret that with the exception of the Central Division, the East isn’t particularly deep. Figure someone from the Atlantic will go (basically because someone has to), the Central could conceivably send everyone, and the Heat should be a shoo-in from the Southeast. That leaves us scrapping with the Magic and Wizards for the right to get swept in the first round…
Monday, October 23, 2006
NFL Thoughts, Week 7
WEEK 7
Depending on the outcome of the Monday Night game, this week’s winning score in my football pool will be either 48 or 51. The week before it was 65, and the week before that it was 104, meaning we as a group seem to be regressing in our predictive ability.
Then again, when the Chargers defense gives up 30 points to the Chiefs (led by a backup quarterback), when the Cardinals come within a field goal of beating the Bears one week and then get blown out by Oakland the next, when Jacksonville gets blasted by Houston, when Cincinnati’s rag-tag O-Line utterly neutralizes Carolina’s pass rush (more on that later), when Seattle gets thoroughly trounced by Minnesota (at home(!)), and when ruthless killer Snoop on The Wire is actually played by a GIRL, it’s kind of hard to be too down on yourself for not seeing any of this coming.
O Panthers, my Panthers…they lie fallen, cold and dead, after a soul-sucking defeat to the eminently beatable Bengals. There was a brilliant passage in Nick Hornby’s memoir, Fever Pitch, wherein he recalls a game involving his beloved Arsenal. In the game, Arsenal goes up 1-0 very early, then spends the rest of the time desperately trying to hold on and preserve the win. When the opposing team eventually ties it with about a minute left, Hornby, who’d been listening in agonized suspense to the whole thing with a transistor radio up to his ear, wrote that “it was like finally getting shot by a gun that had been aimed at my head for an hour.” That’s pretty much what went down at my house yesterday. When they finally lost it all, and with Erin trying to study upstairs, the only thing I can say for myself is that I was at least able to bury my head into my living room carpet in order to best muffle the screams.
Nothing about the game made any sense. Sure, I knew a win was far from inevitable. But if the Panthers lost, I figured it would be because of an injury, or the Cincinnati crowd, or turnovers, or special teams, or Kris Jenkins getting charged with 1st degree murder for killing Chad Johnson during one of his excessive celebrations. I NEVER would have suspected it was because Carson Palmer had ALL DAY to hang back and make passes behind an O-Line that was down two starters. And the really shocking thing is, the Panthers KNEW he was going to pass and they STILL couldn’t get to him. This is not an exaggeration: early in the 3rd quarter, the Bengals actually stopped running the ball altogether. I mean they just completely STOPPED. They even threw on 4th and 1! I have no idea why, considering Rudi Johnson had been doing pretty well up until then, but the bottom line is there was no mystery, and no trickery, as to what they were doing, and the Panthers couldn’t even pressure him. And the crowd was never a factor. I don’t know if they were inebriated or what, but they were fairly docile the whole time. I just don’t get it. Random afterthought: don’t Charlotte and Cincinnati both claim to be “The Queen City?” First of all, why is this? And second, why wasn’t this billed as The Battle of the Queen City?
Defensive Player of the Week: Ronde Barber, who was finally spotted in Tampa Bay this week intercepting two passes for touchdowns, right when I was about to put him atop my 2006 MIA List (along with Larry Johnson, who also broke out this week).
Offensive Player of the Week: Peyton Manning. Watching him operate in the second half reminded me (though probably not commentator Troy Aikman) of the line from Slayer’s Angel of Death: “Surgery! With no anesthesia! Feel the knife pierce you intensely!” Beginning in the second half, he reduced the formerly confident Redskins defense to reeses monkeys, screaming and kicking helplessly around the field while he coldly, clinically carved them up. By the way, Colts fans have to be the most spoiled in the league. Corey Simon goes down, and what do they do? Go out and acquire Anthony McFarland, for a second round draft pick and some fancy stationary.
Depending on the outcome of the Monday Night game, this week’s winning score in my football pool will be either 48 or 51. The week before it was 65, and the week before that it was 104, meaning we as a group seem to be regressing in our predictive ability.
Then again, when the Chargers defense gives up 30 points to the Chiefs (led by a backup quarterback), when the Cardinals come within a field goal of beating the Bears one week and then get blown out by Oakland the next, when Jacksonville gets blasted by Houston, when Cincinnati’s rag-tag O-Line utterly neutralizes Carolina’s pass rush (more on that later), when Seattle gets thoroughly trounced by Minnesota (at home(!)), and when ruthless killer Snoop on The Wire is actually played by a GIRL, it’s kind of hard to be too down on yourself for not seeing any of this coming.
O Panthers, my Panthers…they lie fallen, cold and dead, after a soul-sucking defeat to the eminently beatable Bengals. There was a brilliant passage in Nick Hornby’s memoir, Fever Pitch, wherein he recalls a game involving his beloved Arsenal. In the game, Arsenal goes up 1-0 very early, then spends the rest of the time desperately trying to hold on and preserve the win. When the opposing team eventually ties it with about a minute left, Hornby, who’d been listening in agonized suspense to the whole thing with a transistor radio up to his ear, wrote that “it was like finally getting shot by a gun that had been aimed at my head for an hour.” That’s pretty much what went down at my house yesterday. When they finally lost it all, and with Erin trying to study upstairs, the only thing I can say for myself is that I was at least able to bury my head into my living room carpet in order to best muffle the screams.
Nothing about the game made any sense. Sure, I knew a win was far from inevitable. But if the Panthers lost, I figured it would be because of an injury, or the Cincinnati crowd, or turnovers, or special teams, or Kris Jenkins getting charged with 1st degree murder for killing Chad Johnson during one of his excessive celebrations. I NEVER would have suspected it was because Carson Palmer had ALL DAY to hang back and make passes behind an O-Line that was down two starters. And the really shocking thing is, the Panthers KNEW he was going to pass and they STILL couldn’t get to him. This is not an exaggeration: early in the 3rd quarter, the Bengals actually stopped running the ball altogether. I mean they just completely STOPPED. They even threw on 4th and 1! I have no idea why, considering Rudi Johnson had been doing pretty well up until then, but the bottom line is there was no mystery, and no trickery, as to what they were doing, and the Panthers couldn’t even pressure him. And the crowd was never a factor. I don’t know if they were inebriated or what, but they were fairly docile the whole time. I just don’t get it. Random afterthought: don’t Charlotte and Cincinnati both claim to be “The Queen City?” First of all, why is this? And second, why wasn’t this billed as The Battle of the Queen City?
Defensive Player of the Week: Ronde Barber, who was finally spotted in Tampa Bay this week intercepting two passes for touchdowns, right when I was about to put him atop my 2006 MIA List (along with Larry Johnson, who also broke out this week).
Offensive Player of the Week: Peyton Manning. Watching him operate in the second half reminded me (though probably not commentator Troy Aikman) of the line from Slayer’s Angel of Death: “Surgery! With no anesthesia! Feel the knife pierce you intensely!” Beginning in the second half, he reduced the formerly confident Redskins defense to reeses monkeys, screaming and kicking helplessly around the field while he coldly, clinically carved them up. By the way, Colts fans have to be the most spoiled in the league. Corey Simon goes down, and what do they do? Go out and acquire Anthony McFarland, for a second round draft pick and some fancy stationary.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
My Weekly NFL Pool (which I humbly submit as the greatest system ever)
I participate in a weekly NFL with friends and family. There's no money involved, because I'm in grad school and thus need to refrain until I have an actual income. There aren't really any bragging rights involved either (unless I happen to win). The real purpose is to unleash my deepest introspections and NFL meditations on innocent family members and friends (see "Week By Week NFL Thoughts").
Anyway, I'm trailing my father in our pool, but I don't feel too bad because he actually performs regression analysis to make his picks. I'm not making thisup. What's weird is, this is also the same man who frequently can't remembermy phone number and address, even though I've personally entered both into hiscell phone, PDA, and address book, and shown him repeatedly how to look themup. He's Rain Man like that.
My wife also plays, but her picks technically aren't factually-based. She picks"Green Bay" because it sounds like "Green Day" (her favorite band). And shepicks animals she likes, so the Dolphins, Seahawks, Ravens, Cardinals, andColts are always winners (for her, the conflict is when they end up playingeach other, in which case she picks whichever team's colors are "prettiest"). She's more or less the control group to make me feel better about wasting allthose hours researching teams.I like our system.
The way we play is, however many games there are this week, that's how many points you have to put down. So let's say there are fourteen games this week. What you have to do is pick the winner of each game, and assign a number from 1-14 for each game, with 1 being the pick you're least confident in, and 14 being the one you're most confident in. So for last Monday's Bears-Cardinals game, I had 13 on the Bears (which I ended up immensely regretting for about 3.5 quarters). Meanwhile my 1-pointer last week was the Jets to beat the Dolphins. You have to use every number and you can only use a number once, so it's a forced distribution. If the team wins, you get the points; if not you get zero, and the person with the most points wins. The team only needs to win; no spreads. You should try it this weekend and see how you do.
Some weeks are harder than others, and you end up just wanting to put "1" on every game. Other times, you end up rooting for a team to lose even though you picked them, because you only had 1 on them while some knucklehead (in this case, my best friend Aaron) put a ridiculously high number on them (10, to be specific--on the JETS!!). And in case you're wondering, for games like the Dolphins-Jets, yes, you DO have to pick someone to win.
Okay, this blog has been EXTREMELY dorky, even by my standards, barely one step cooler than bragging their World of Warcraft quests. But I like our system, and it's pretty cool when you stop and think about it...although I'm notsure why someone actually WOULD stop and think about it.
Anyway, I'm trailing my father in our pool, but I don't feel too bad because he actually performs regression analysis to make his picks. I'm not making thisup. What's weird is, this is also the same man who frequently can't remembermy phone number and address, even though I've personally entered both into hiscell phone, PDA, and address book, and shown him repeatedly how to look themup. He's Rain Man like that.
My wife also plays, but her picks technically aren't factually-based. She picks"Green Bay" because it sounds like "Green Day" (her favorite band). And shepicks animals she likes, so the Dolphins, Seahawks, Ravens, Cardinals, andColts are always winners (for her, the conflict is when they end up playingeach other, in which case she picks whichever team's colors are "prettiest"). She's more or less the control group to make me feel better about wasting allthose hours researching teams.I like our system.
The way we play is, however many games there are this week, that's how many points you have to put down. So let's say there are fourteen games this week. What you have to do is pick the winner of each game, and assign a number from 1-14 for each game, with 1 being the pick you're least confident in, and 14 being the one you're most confident in. So for last Monday's Bears-Cardinals game, I had 13 on the Bears (which I ended up immensely regretting for about 3.5 quarters). Meanwhile my 1-pointer last week was the Jets to beat the Dolphins. You have to use every number and you can only use a number once, so it's a forced distribution. If the team wins, you get the points; if not you get zero, and the person with the most points wins. The team only needs to win; no spreads. You should try it this weekend and see how you do.
Some weeks are harder than others, and you end up just wanting to put "1" on every game. Other times, you end up rooting for a team to lose even though you picked them, because you only had 1 on them while some knucklehead (in this case, my best friend Aaron) put a ridiculously high number on them (10, to be specific--on the JETS!!). And in case you're wondering, for games like the Dolphins-Jets, yes, you DO have to pick someone to win.
Okay, this blog has been EXTREMELY dorky, even by my standards, barely one step cooler than bragging their World of Warcraft quests. But I like our system, and it's pretty cool when you stop and think about it...although I'm notsure why someone actually WOULD stop and think about it.
Another Tragic Case of Yankee Addiction
Before the name was associated with the innovative baseball statistician, “William James” commonly referred to the turn-of-the-century philosopher/psychologist. The original James was the progenitor of radical empiricism, a doctrine that insists on the equal validity of all stimuli--internal or external, real or imagined. For a radical empiricist, whether you burned your finger lighting your grill or you saw Jesus appear in your barbecue flames, no experience should be discounted. Emotional responses and their shaping effects on personality and thought process are the bottom line, and their legitimacy is independent of their causes.
I turn to good ol’ Bill J. for comfort anytime the New York Yankees lose, and the reason is twofold. First, every Yankees defeat inspires in me intense, inconsolable grief. I don’t just mean big games, either; I’m talking trivial mid-summer games against non-rivals. Second, as I lie there mourning, I’m simultaneously fully cognizant of the sheer absurdity of my emotions. It’s utterly ridiculous, my brain attempts to rationalize, for a grown man with steady employment, a loving wife, and fully-functional testicles, to become so profoundly despondent by the fortunes of a group of professional athletes. The contradiction is even more incongruous considering that I have no personal relationships with any of the team’s players, nor any financial transactions hinging on the outcome. Further, I am not overly emotional by nature; I’ve buried loved ones, best friends, and favorite pets without so much as shedding a tear. Yet there is no denying the stark tangibility of my post-loss anguish and suffering: I know for a fact that I will feel aimless and hopeless, I will have difficulty sleeping, and (most disturbingly) I will act sullen and withdrawn around friends and family. Therefore, I seek out James for redemption.
To wit, take a recent mid-June weekend in which the Yankees traveled to Washington, DC for a 3-game series against the host Nationals. Friday night started happily enough with the Yankees emerging triumphant. And on Saturday, when the Yankees opened up an early 9-2 lead, I naively settled in for an afternoon of basking in the burgeoning rout. Unfortunately, what followed was a steady, maddening erosion of said lead, culminating in an eventual 12-9 disaster. My ensuing agony was multidimensional, informed by the loss itself, the wasted afternoon, the emotional exhaustion of dissolved optimism, and the grim realization that a sleepless night was forthcoming.
By contrast, Sunday’s loss was different in execution and my corresponding response but consistent in its emotional output. This time, a soul-crushing 2-run walk-off homer by the Nationals in the bottom of the ninth ended the Yankees’ lead and the game itself with pitiless swiftness. Lying on my bed and listening to radio broadcaster John Sterling’s doubtless description of the home run’s fatal parabola, I froze. I gasped. I think I even laughed. I turned off the radio, turned it on, and turned it off again. I walked around in aimless circles, and then I capsized back on the bed and moaned softly for several moments. Whereas Saturday’s affair was an arduously slow and torturous death, Sunday was a sudden decapitation from a massive scythe out of nowhere. In sum, the weekend’s consecutive calamities combined to challenge the entirety of my coping abilities.
The entire behavioral cycle of Yankee fandom, characterized by self-inflicted trauma, is illogical at best and borderline masochistic at worst, and yet I am clearly not alone. Yankees fans are well aware of the team’s Brobdingnagian payroll and the subsequent resentment it sparks in the hearts of others. And though we make no apologies for the financial inequality, we are uniquely burdened with a high-stakes urgency to win it all or be viewed as consummate failures. Given the financial resources, to win is merely to do the expected; to lose is shameful and inexcusable. The pain is therefore amplified disproportionately vis-à-vis that of competing fans. Even when the Yankees do win it all, the hegemonic feeling is relief rather than ecstasy, a temporary unburdening in this Sisyphusian existence.
I never saw the contrast in fan personas more vividly than the 2004 American League Championship Series. For purposes of my own mental health, I will keep the synopsis brief. In the best-of-seven set, in which the winner would advance to the World Series, the Yankees won the first three games against their fiercest rival, the Boston Red Sox. As the third game wound down at Fenway Park, the television cameras scanned the crowd of Bostonians and revealed an ironically cheerful bunch, shrugging and laughing away what appeared to be a certain loss with a general c’est-la-vie air of dismissal. Of course, what followed was one of the most spectacular collapses in sports history: the Red Sox came roaring back and rattled off four straight wins, taking Game 7 by a landslide at Yankee Stadium. This time when the cameras captured the audience’s reaction, the scene was a colorized version of the JFK funeral procession. Forever burned in my mind are the images of entire families clutching themselves and weeping; young women with their Yankee caps pulled low, unable to watch; a man lying prostrate across the seats and openly sobbing. Through my own devastation, it occurred to me how satisfying it must be to defeat us, because we react exactly how you as opposing fans would want.
The years have been accumulating since the last Yankees World Series victory—six and counting. Each year the team falls short, on the day after their elimination, the echo of nationwide sports talk show pundits gleefully reporting their latest failure is prodigious. Even at my current home in Durham, NC, where the topic of sports radio shows rarely strays from UNC/Duke/NC State-related mudslinging, a one-day truce is called so callers can unite in the anti-Yankee pile-on celebration. Again, because of the money imbalance, the rejoicing in understandable. But couldn’t there be at least one other successful team whose losses catalyze nationwide, unabashed joy? Where, for instance, were the mass revelers in ’99 when the post-Jordan Bulls finished last?
Though I would love to conclude with a positive anecdote or two, nicely segueing to an explanation of why it’s “all worth it” to be a Yankees fan, a) I have none, and b) it’s not. The entire affair is as tragically mysterious as a debilitating addiction, complete with murky origins and helpless self-resentment at being unable to quit. The son of sports fans, I was probably genetically predisposed to the condition. I take my relief where I can find it, be it commiserating with Nick Hornby’s “Fever Pitch” (a masterwork that I am convinced was written specifically for me) or making treks out to Yankee Stadium, where I can at least suffer losses in the company of 50,000 sympathizing co-dependents. And as the mid-summer gives way to autumn’s inevitable shattered dreams, I wish William James was still around. He’d soothe me by pointing out that though there’s no rational basis for my suffering, at least no one should scoff at it. Of course, being a New Englander, he’d probably also be a Red Sox fan.
I turn to good ol’ Bill J. for comfort anytime the New York Yankees lose, and the reason is twofold. First, every Yankees defeat inspires in me intense, inconsolable grief. I don’t just mean big games, either; I’m talking trivial mid-summer games against non-rivals. Second, as I lie there mourning, I’m simultaneously fully cognizant of the sheer absurdity of my emotions. It’s utterly ridiculous, my brain attempts to rationalize, for a grown man with steady employment, a loving wife, and fully-functional testicles, to become so profoundly despondent by the fortunes of a group of professional athletes. The contradiction is even more incongruous considering that I have no personal relationships with any of the team’s players, nor any financial transactions hinging on the outcome. Further, I am not overly emotional by nature; I’ve buried loved ones, best friends, and favorite pets without so much as shedding a tear. Yet there is no denying the stark tangibility of my post-loss anguish and suffering: I know for a fact that I will feel aimless and hopeless, I will have difficulty sleeping, and (most disturbingly) I will act sullen and withdrawn around friends and family. Therefore, I seek out James for redemption.
To wit, take a recent mid-June weekend in which the Yankees traveled to Washington, DC for a 3-game series against the host Nationals. Friday night started happily enough with the Yankees emerging triumphant. And on Saturday, when the Yankees opened up an early 9-2 lead, I naively settled in for an afternoon of basking in the burgeoning rout. Unfortunately, what followed was a steady, maddening erosion of said lead, culminating in an eventual 12-9 disaster. My ensuing agony was multidimensional, informed by the loss itself, the wasted afternoon, the emotional exhaustion of dissolved optimism, and the grim realization that a sleepless night was forthcoming.
By contrast, Sunday’s loss was different in execution and my corresponding response but consistent in its emotional output. This time, a soul-crushing 2-run walk-off homer by the Nationals in the bottom of the ninth ended the Yankees’ lead and the game itself with pitiless swiftness. Lying on my bed and listening to radio broadcaster John Sterling’s doubtless description of the home run’s fatal parabola, I froze. I gasped. I think I even laughed. I turned off the radio, turned it on, and turned it off again. I walked around in aimless circles, and then I capsized back on the bed and moaned softly for several moments. Whereas Saturday’s affair was an arduously slow and torturous death, Sunday was a sudden decapitation from a massive scythe out of nowhere. In sum, the weekend’s consecutive calamities combined to challenge the entirety of my coping abilities.
The entire behavioral cycle of Yankee fandom, characterized by self-inflicted trauma, is illogical at best and borderline masochistic at worst, and yet I am clearly not alone. Yankees fans are well aware of the team’s Brobdingnagian payroll and the subsequent resentment it sparks in the hearts of others. And though we make no apologies for the financial inequality, we are uniquely burdened with a high-stakes urgency to win it all or be viewed as consummate failures. Given the financial resources, to win is merely to do the expected; to lose is shameful and inexcusable. The pain is therefore amplified disproportionately vis-à-vis that of competing fans. Even when the Yankees do win it all, the hegemonic feeling is relief rather than ecstasy, a temporary unburdening in this Sisyphusian existence.
I never saw the contrast in fan personas more vividly than the 2004 American League Championship Series. For purposes of my own mental health, I will keep the synopsis brief. In the best-of-seven set, in which the winner would advance to the World Series, the Yankees won the first three games against their fiercest rival, the Boston Red Sox. As the third game wound down at Fenway Park, the television cameras scanned the crowd of Bostonians and revealed an ironically cheerful bunch, shrugging and laughing away what appeared to be a certain loss with a general c’est-la-vie air of dismissal. Of course, what followed was one of the most spectacular collapses in sports history: the Red Sox came roaring back and rattled off four straight wins, taking Game 7 by a landslide at Yankee Stadium. This time when the cameras captured the audience’s reaction, the scene was a colorized version of the JFK funeral procession. Forever burned in my mind are the images of entire families clutching themselves and weeping; young women with their Yankee caps pulled low, unable to watch; a man lying prostrate across the seats and openly sobbing. Through my own devastation, it occurred to me how satisfying it must be to defeat us, because we react exactly how you as opposing fans would want.
The years have been accumulating since the last Yankees World Series victory—six and counting. Each year the team falls short, on the day after their elimination, the echo of nationwide sports talk show pundits gleefully reporting their latest failure is prodigious. Even at my current home in Durham, NC, where the topic of sports radio shows rarely strays from UNC/Duke/NC State-related mudslinging, a one-day truce is called so callers can unite in the anti-Yankee pile-on celebration. Again, because of the money imbalance, the rejoicing in understandable. But couldn’t there be at least one other successful team whose losses catalyze nationwide, unabashed joy? Where, for instance, were the mass revelers in ’99 when the post-Jordan Bulls finished last?
Though I would love to conclude with a positive anecdote or two, nicely segueing to an explanation of why it’s “all worth it” to be a Yankees fan, a) I have none, and b) it’s not. The entire affair is as tragically mysterious as a debilitating addiction, complete with murky origins and helpless self-resentment at being unable to quit. The son of sports fans, I was probably genetically predisposed to the condition. I take my relief where I can find it, be it commiserating with Nick Hornby’s “Fever Pitch” (a masterwork that I am convinced was written specifically for me) or making treks out to Yankee Stadium, where I can at least suffer losses in the company of 50,000 sympathizing co-dependents. And as the mid-summer gives way to autumn’s inevitable shattered dreams, I wish William James was still around. He’d soothe me by pointing out that though there’s no rational basis for my suffering, at least no one should scoff at it. Of course, being a New Englander, he’d probably also be a Red Sox fan.
Proving Us Wrong, Proving Yourself Foolish: Quit Playing The Underdog Card!
As soon as he said the words, my heart sank. Describing his team’s championship run after winning the decisive Game 6, Miami Heat guard Dwyane Wade repeatedly mentioned his team “proving everyone wrong” and relishing a victory in which “no one gave them a chance.” “People doubted us all year,” chimed in teammate Shaquille O’Neal, “everyone counted us out, no one gave us the respect we deserved.” The otherwise adorable Wade and O’Neal have now sadly become the latest victims of a disturbing epidemic in sports: the Doubter Boogeyman Syndrome (DBS). If you have been following any sport recently—from tennis to Ultimate Fighting—you have probably encountered DBS, the annoying tendency of winners to proclaim that the most satisfying aspect of their victories is proving their doubters—whom they are convinced exist in legions—wrong.
The tendency of athletes to cast themselves as overlooked underdogs in order to gain a psychological edge is well-documented. Dean Smith famously believed his Michael Jordan-endowed UNC Tar Heels never had a chance against anyone. Many coaches post disparaging remarks made by opposing teams in the locker room in order to “fire-up” their players. Contradictory as it may seem, superior performance through self-fabricated inferiority is a common athletic approach. I suppose therefore that gloating to media pundits and/or society at large for predicting the opposing team to win is a natural behavioral follow-up of this mentality. Nonetheless, it is an unnecessarily tactless act, devoid of any charm whatsoever, that does nothing to augment the athlete’s own accomplishments or ingratiate him- or herself with fans.
DBS can also be utterly ridiculous when the victorious team was in fact an odds-on favorite. The Miami Heat are such a team. Two seasons ago, the Heat finished one game short of the NBA Finals. Then, just prior to this season, the Heat acquired several veteran talents for roughly the cost of some upscale stationary. Along with their incumbent core talent—including the legendary O’Neal and the explosive burgeoning superstar Wade—this amalgamated Super Group was a no-brainer on everyone’s short list of primary contenders. The scales of opinion further tipped in their favor when General Manager and Hall of Fame shoo-in Pat Riley installed himself as head coach. All season, the Heat and Detroit Pistons were interchangeable at #1 and #2 for best teams in the Eastern Conference. Not only were there no doubters, the consensus opinion was that anything less than an NBA championship for the Heat would be an underachievement. Wade and O’Neal’s post-game doubter-paranoia was completely preposterous.
Even when the champions did have actual nay-sayers along the way, DBS can be grating. Take the Super Bowl-winning Pittsburgh Steelers. Admittedly, there were loads of skeptics, but what is one supposed to think when the team isn’t all that good? In his post-game remarks, Steeler linebacker Joey Porter posited, "It feels so much better to do something people say you can't do. There's no better feeling than that.” Well, Joey, in a game that features two teams, we all have to pick somebody, and let’s face it, your team did not even win its own division and was the last to qualify for the playoffs. Only someone with the blind faith of a jihadist would not see cause for questioning the Steelers’ chances. Further, the Steelers’ two keynote playoff wins (against the Indianapolis Colts and Seattle Seahawks) were clumsy, forgettable affairs marred by missed opportunities and poor officiating; picture David triumphing because Goliath tripped and fell on his face.
And what’s with the “can’ts?” "There's a lot of people telling you that you can't do it but, you know what, that doesn't mean you don't go try," Steelers coach Bill Cowher waxed philosophically. Cowher also revealed--straight-facedly--that before the game he reminded his team that Christopher Columbus was once told he’d never discover the New World. Forgive me if I don’t start humming “We Shall Overcome,” Coach, but no one said you “can’t.” I defy you to show me a single headline that read: “Steelers Can’t Possibly Win Super Bowl XL (subtitle: Lawmakers Refuse to Allow It).” In this case, as in all others, impartial analysts holistically evaluated the empirical evidence of a 16-game sample set and respectfully proffered the most likely outcome in a single-loss elimination playoff format. The Steelers were hardly Jesse Owens competing in front of Nazi Germany.
Everyone knows that interviews with athletes are a no-win formality. Bland jocks are criticized for their boring clichés, while the more colorful athletes risk creating needless controversy with incendiary remarks. With its passive-aggressive nature (these actual doubters—supernumerary though they may be—are seldom named), DBS probably originated from a well-intentioned desire to say something interesting yet also vague and inflammable. Unfortunately, because athletes clearly take notes on each other’s interview techniques, DBS has become an insidious default comment, accessible to all, even humble churchgoers such as the aforementioned D-Wade. Maybe this mental stance is cyclic, and in another decade the delusional protocol will shift the other way: after every victory, athletes will claim their team to be the greatest of all time.
Either way, I suppose we should be thankful DBS is confined to sports. What if every award acceptor had this sort of fabricated chip on his or her shoulder? What if instead of accepting her Oscar with tear-stained gratitude, Halle Barry launched into a tirade and slammed the haters who told her she’d never win after doing “Swordfish?” How about if Bill Clinton had begun his post-‘96 campaign re-inauguration speech by describing the impossible odds he’d overcome to defeat Bob Dole? Enjoy your win, endear yourself to the public in a series of prefabricated late night talk show conversations, credit your teammates especially when you obviously did all the work, and thank the Lord for blessing you with more points than the other team (if you so choose). Not every victory needs to be an epic triumph of the indomitable human spirit (starring Mark Wahlberg and coming this summer to theatres everywhere).
The tendency of athletes to cast themselves as overlooked underdogs in order to gain a psychological edge is well-documented. Dean Smith famously believed his Michael Jordan-endowed UNC Tar Heels never had a chance against anyone. Many coaches post disparaging remarks made by opposing teams in the locker room in order to “fire-up” their players. Contradictory as it may seem, superior performance through self-fabricated inferiority is a common athletic approach. I suppose therefore that gloating to media pundits and/or society at large for predicting the opposing team to win is a natural behavioral follow-up of this mentality. Nonetheless, it is an unnecessarily tactless act, devoid of any charm whatsoever, that does nothing to augment the athlete’s own accomplishments or ingratiate him- or herself with fans.
DBS can also be utterly ridiculous when the victorious team was in fact an odds-on favorite. The Miami Heat are such a team. Two seasons ago, the Heat finished one game short of the NBA Finals. Then, just prior to this season, the Heat acquired several veteran talents for roughly the cost of some upscale stationary. Along with their incumbent core talent—including the legendary O’Neal and the explosive burgeoning superstar Wade—this amalgamated Super Group was a no-brainer on everyone’s short list of primary contenders. The scales of opinion further tipped in their favor when General Manager and Hall of Fame shoo-in Pat Riley installed himself as head coach. All season, the Heat and Detroit Pistons were interchangeable at #1 and #2 for best teams in the Eastern Conference. Not only were there no doubters, the consensus opinion was that anything less than an NBA championship for the Heat would be an underachievement. Wade and O’Neal’s post-game doubter-paranoia was completely preposterous.
Even when the champions did have actual nay-sayers along the way, DBS can be grating. Take the Super Bowl-winning Pittsburgh Steelers. Admittedly, there were loads of skeptics, but what is one supposed to think when the team isn’t all that good? In his post-game remarks, Steeler linebacker Joey Porter posited, "It feels so much better to do something people say you can't do. There's no better feeling than that.” Well, Joey, in a game that features two teams, we all have to pick somebody, and let’s face it, your team did not even win its own division and was the last to qualify for the playoffs. Only someone with the blind faith of a jihadist would not see cause for questioning the Steelers’ chances. Further, the Steelers’ two keynote playoff wins (against the Indianapolis Colts and Seattle Seahawks) were clumsy, forgettable affairs marred by missed opportunities and poor officiating; picture David triumphing because Goliath tripped and fell on his face.
And what’s with the “can’ts?” "There's a lot of people telling you that you can't do it but, you know what, that doesn't mean you don't go try," Steelers coach Bill Cowher waxed philosophically. Cowher also revealed--straight-facedly--that before the game he reminded his team that Christopher Columbus was once told he’d never discover the New World. Forgive me if I don’t start humming “We Shall Overcome,” Coach, but no one said you “can’t.” I defy you to show me a single headline that read: “Steelers Can’t Possibly Win Super Bowl XL (subtitle: Lawmakers Refuse to Allow It).” In this case, as in all others, impartial analysts holistically evaluated the empirical evidence of a 16-game sample set and respectfully proffered the most likely outcome in a single-loss elimination playoff format. The Steelers were hardly Jesse Owens competing in front of Nazi Germany.
Everyone knows that interviews with athletes are a no-win formality. Bland jocks are criticized for their boring clichés, while the more colorful athletes risk creating needless controversy with incendiary remarks. With its passive-aggressive nature (these actual doubters—supernumerary though they may be—are seldom named), DBS probably originated from a well-intentioned desire to say something interesting yet also vague and inflammable. Unfortunately, because athletes clearly take notes on each other’s interview techniques, DBS has become an insidious default comment, accessible to all, even humble churchgoers such as the aforementioned D-Wade. Maybe this mental stance is cyclic, and in another decade the delusional protocol will shift the other way: after every victory, athletes will claim their team to be the greatest of all time.
Either way, I suppose we should be thankful DBS is confined to sports. What if every award acceptor had this sort of fabricated chip on his or her shoulder? What if instead of accepting her Oscar with tear-stained gratitude, Halle Barry launched into a tirade and slammed the haters who told her she’d never win after doing “Swordfish?” How about if Bill Clinton had begun his post-‘96 campaign re-inauguration speech by describing the impossible odds he’d overcome to defeat Bob Dole? Enjoy your win, endear yourself to the public in a series of prefabricated late night talk show conversations, credit your teammates especially when you obviously did all the work, and thank the Lord for blessing you with more points than the other team (if you so choose). Not every victory needs to be an epic triumph of the indomitable human spirit (starring Mark Wahlberg and coming this summer to theatres everywhere).
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