God only knows what I'd be without you...
Many times have I resisted the impulse to post about sports in this space. At times I have succumbed to the desire, but mostly it has been in a frivolous, fantastical sort of way, claiming to have won several NBA championships or thrown a seventy yard touchdown pass late in the fourth quarter of some epic football clash, or something of that nature. I resist because I'm convinced that there are few things people want to read less than my vaguely frightening obsessive sports fan ramblings. (Though for some reason I'm convinced that you do want to read seven updates fretting over whether or not I'll get into the SEA program.) Because let's not kid ourselves; it's called Livejournal but this is no journal. At least mine isn't. It's more like a free magazine (free because no one would pay to read it) that you all choose to read either because A. you used to know me or still do, in a roundabout way, and occasionally you need to kill some time, or B. you feed on your own pain.
But it feels artificial not to write about sports because I spend a great deal of my time watching them/listening to them/worrying about them, so it would seem they have a place here. I mean, it's difficult to describe the putrid, bilious feeling that fills my stomach when Wazzu loses in football or Kentucky in basketball. And let's not forget the joy; I nearly blew a gasket when Patrick Sparks' desperate, miraculous 3 went down to tie the Elite 8 game with Michigan State last month. And I'm a bonafide, though admittedly minor, stockholder in Mancheser United, for God's sake. It's a vital part of my life; but it's a very love-hate relationship, and like all things, I'm picky about sports. In general I hate professional sports. Professional basketball is gaudy and uninspiring; every time I turn on Sportscenter and they're flashing NBA scores and every single one of them is something like 135-99 and Allen Iverson scored 89 points in a losing effort it just makes me wish they'd stop already. Pro football is soulless and mechanical, in many ways the equally wretched opposite of the NBA: lots of score like 23-19, quarterbacks who can't move the ball and receivers doing absurd endzone celebrations with their team down 35-7. Thank God hockey is cancelled. I hope it dies on the vine. Baseball is mind-numbing at any level, and is a culture largely populated by overweight, mustachioed men in tight pants. I'll give it this, though: there's something beautiful about a sport where some of the most successful participants are paunchy, sweaty old men who look as if they'll keel over if they don't get a couple beef franks during the seventh inning stretch. David Wells' booze fuelled perfect game in '98 is a sporting moment for the ages.
I don't believe it's necessary to comment on NASCAR.
College sports is where it's at. Where the pros are flashy and steroid-fueled exhibitions, which really have more in common with auto shows than sporting competition, college sports are earthy and committed. I gladly exchange a higher caliber of athlete for one that is poor and has to go to school between practices (even if it is just 4 different types of P.E.) and is there because they care about the school and the game, and the fans in turn care about them. Sure, a lot of them are in college so they can have a shot at the big money, but that's okay because they're paying their dues and you have to respect that. I suppose a lot of my loyalty to college sports is conditional; I grew up in college towns, so that's how it goes. Lexington, Gainesville, Pullman, Moscow. They all live and breathe their college team, and that's the air I grew up breathing. Except Moscow cause the Vandals suck, but people still turn out to see 'em, though in decidedly smaller number than those other places. Let's just say, I dodged a bullet by forming my deepest sports alleigances before moving to Moscow.
And then there's soccer. This is a different animal altogether. It's the only sport where I can watch just about any team just for the beauty of the game. American sports I pretty much restrict to the teams to which I am soul-bound, but soccer I devour voraciously, in large part because it is an exotic and beautiful endeavour, whereas I find most American sports ugly, both inside and out. American football stars have names like Brett Favre, Dick Butkus and He Hate Me, but world football stars have names like (and these are all real) Florent Sinama-Pongolle, Ebbe Sand, Socrates, Jay-Jay Okocha, and the simply but aptly named George Best. When I turn on an American football game I'm staring at some angular concrete monstrosity called Starbucks Stadium Presented by First National Bank in Association with J.P. Fuckwit's XXX Video Shoppe. I can't stand all this corporate appropriation, although I fully intend that one day all professional sports will be played inside uniformly constructed obsidian domes called BENCORP. Arenas. No refreshments will be available.
But when I tune into a soccer game it's played in a stadium with a cool name like Old Trafford or The San Siro and it's coming live from Turin or Mexico City or Port-of-Spain, and the fans are bizarrely garbed and frequently violent (just last week fans in Milan pelted a player named Dida with lit road flares) and for a couple hours I can forget all the petty bullshit that encroaches on me and watch grown men who don't even speak my language kick a ball around and occasionally knee each other in the balls and it all ends in a lovely hail of road flares. I think everyone speaks that language. As I mentioned before I am a shareholder in Manchester United PLC, a privilege for which I pay fifteen British pounds sterling a year and have the right to attend the annual stockholders meeting or whatever (unfortunately I haven't made it yet), and I do it because I want to be a part of the club and also to prevent a malevolent, bearded man from seizing control.
I'm all out of steam. You've all just completed the one-time training course to be a licensed expert on how Ben feels about sports. There is an advanced course available, but for that you have to come with me to a Cougar game at Martin Stadium and hide your face in shame as I shriek semi-intelligibly about the sexual proclivities of the opposing players' mothers. To sign up just buy both of us a ticket.
But it feels artificial not to write about sports because I spend a great deal of my time watching them/listening to them/worrying about them, so it would seem they have a place here. I mean, it's difficult to describe the putrid, bilious feeling that fills my stomach when Wazzu loses in football or Kentucky in basketball. And let's not forget the joy; I nearly blew a gasket when Patrick Sparks' desperate, miraculous 3 went down to tie the Elite 8 game with Michigan State last month. And I'm a bonafide, though admittedly minor, stockholder in Mancheser United, for God's sake. It's a vital part of my life; but it's a very love-hate relationship, and like all things, I'm picky about sports. In general I hate professional sports. Professional basketball is gaudy and uninspiring; every time I turn on Sportscenter and they're flashing NBA scores and every single one of them is something like 135-99 and Allen Iverson scored 89 points in a losing effort it just makes me wish they'd stop already. Pro football is soulless and mechanical, in many ways the equally wretched opposite of the NBA: lots of score like 23-19, quarterbacks who can't move the ball and receivers doing absurd endzone celebrations with their team down 35-7. Thank God hockey is cancelled. I hope it dies on the vine. Baseball is mind-numbing at any level, and is a culture largely populated by overweight, mustachioed men in tight pants. I'll give it this, though: there's something beautiful about a sport where some of the most successful participants are paunchy, sweaty old men who look as if they'll keel over if they don't get a couple beef franks during the seventh inning stretch. David Wells' booze fuelled perfect game in '98 is a sporting moment for the ages.
I don't believe it's necessary to comment on NASCAR.
College sports is where it's at. Where the pros are flashy and steroid-fueled exhibitions, which really have more in common with auto shows than sporting competition, college sports are earthy and committed. I gladly exchange a higher caliber of athlete for one that is poor and has to go to school between practices (even if it is just 4 different types of P.E.) and is there because they care about the school and the game, and the fans in turn care about them. Sure, a lot of them are in college so they can have a shot at the big money, but that's okay because they're paying their dues and you have to respect that. I suppose a lot of my loyalty to college sports is conditional; I grew up in college towns, so that's how it goes. Lexington, Gainesville, Pullman, Moscow. They all live and breathe their college team, and that's the air I grew up breathing. Except Moscow cause the Vandals suck, but people still turn out to see 'em, though in decidedly smaller number than those other places. Let's just say, I dodged a bullet by forming my deepest sports alleigances before moving to Moscow.
And then there's soccer. This is a different animal altogether. It's the only sport where I can watch just about any team just for the beauty of the game. American sports I pretty much restrict to the teams to which I am soul-bound, but soccer I devour voraciously, in large part because it is an exotic and beautiful endeavour, whereas I find most American sports ugly, both inside and out. American football stars have names like Brett Favre, Dick Butkus and He Hate Me, but world football stars have names like (and these are all real) Florent Sinama-Pongolle, Ebbe Sand, Socrates, Jay-Jay Okocha, and the simply but aptly named George Best. When I turn on an American football game I'm staring at some angular concrete monstrosity called Starbucks Stadium Presented by First National Bank in Association with J.P. Fuckwit's XXX Video Shoppe. I can't stand all this corporate appropriation, although I fully intend that one day all professional sports will be played inside uniformly constructed obsidian domes called BENCORP. Arenas. No refreshments will be available.
But when I tune into a soccer game it's played in a stadium with a cool name like Old Trafford or The San Siro and it's coming live from Turin or Mexico City or Port-of-Spain, and the fans are bizarrely garbed and frequently violent (just last week fans in Milan pelted a player named Dida with lit road flares) and for a couple hours I can forget all the petty bullshit that encroaches on me and watch grown men who don't even speak my language kick a ball around and occasionally knee each other in the balls and it all ends in a lovely hail of road flares. I think everyone speaks that language. As I mentioned before I am a shareholder in Manchester United PLC, a privilege for which I pay fifteen British pounds sterling a year and have the right to attend the annual stockholders meeting or whatever (unfortunately I haven't made it yet), and I do it because I want to be a part of the club and also to prevent a malevolent, bearded man from seizing control.
I'm all out of steam. You've all just completed the one-time training course to be a licensed expert on how Ben feels about sports. There is an advanced course available, but for that you have to come with me to a Cougar game at Martin Stadium and hide your face in shame as I shriek semi-intelligibly about the sexual proclivities of the opposing players' mothers. To sign up just buy both of us a ticket.