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Sweet Georgia Brown Noise June 3, 2008

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants, Sports.
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That loud scream, a mixture of joy, sexual jubilation and outright orgasmicness, emanating from the NBA offices last week did not come from another Kobe Bryant paramour. It did not come from Charles Barkley realizing he had one more Ring Ding in a box he once thought empty. And it wasn’t from Marv Albert, realizing that a local Victoria’s Secret was having a “Going Out of Business” sale. Nope, it was from none other than David Stern.

The NBA had fallen on some tough times. Recently it was reported that Mr. Stern was only wiping his ass with fifty-dollar bills, instead of his old standard, 1000 cut Egyptian sheets wrapped in fifty-dollar bills. TV ratings were down. Refs were throwing games to appease mobsters (in real life, too, not just in bad Adrian Grenier movies). And the dumb as rocks children who were once able to jump to the NBA straight from their sham high schools had to attend college for AT LEAST ONE YEAR. That could mean injury, underperformance, or worse, the idea that they might actually like learning and put off the fact that their likeness would be sold on everything from shoes to Beanie Baby figurines for a whole four years.

Nope, Mr. Stern got his wish when the Celtics of Boston and the Lakers of Los Angeles managed to wade through the sludge of teams who sell tickets only in their hometowns. This was David and Goliath (wait, both teams are among the biggest moneymakers in all sports…) This was Bird vs. Magic (wait, Larry Bird now resembles John Holmes without the huge wiener and Magic has enough popcorn at his chain of movie theatres to garner his own zip code….). This is Kobe vs. Kevin Garnett. This is that weird white Lurch guy against the guy who schooled Denzel Washington (no, not Ethan Hawke…). This is Phil Jackson…zen master…against Doc Rivers, whose previously claim to fame was, um, that he once was in a highlight film because he was in the camera’s view of Dominique Wilkins. This is green vs. purple. This is the Hulk’s color scheme taking on human form and fighting against one another. This is money in the bank. A series that takes an amazing rivalry (which hasn’t happened more than two times a year since 1987) and puts it on network TV. Yup. NBA. This happens.

But is Lakers-Celtics the greatest rivalry in sports? I mean, it did have a series of Sega Genesis games, with graphics only slighter stronger than Konami’s Double Dribble, named after it. It boasts some of the greatest players in all of history having taken part in it. And again, it’s all about the color scheme.

While I am in the Red Sox vs. Yankees camp of something being even more monumentous in terms of sheer hatred and the Duke-UNC rivalry being as close our nation has gotten to beating up and hating your kinfolk since the Civil War, neither of these holds a candle to the greatest rivalry in sports history.

Yup, the Harlem Globetrotters vs. the Washington Generals.

Now, one may say, it’s not a rivalry if one team consistently loses. One may say it’s not a rivalry if the teams don’t have some sort of geographic proximity. And some more may say it’s not a rivalry if one team is allowed to utilize buckets of confetti borrowed from the Rip Taylor collection. I say, Pshaw on all of you.

These teams have played an astounding 15,000 plus games against one another. And the Generals have won maybe five of those (Stats not confirmed…in fact, five may be a little generous.) So how can it be a rivalry? For that reason alone. Five times in over 15,000 tries. Meaning that should you actually be present for one of those wins, you are truly, for that day, in love with your team. The Yanks and Red Sox beat up on another and often find the word curse and spooky and Goose Gossage’s moustache bandied about. But they beat one another so often that to witness a victory by either team is just another day. Sure, you get angry and you curse the guy in the cubicle next to you with the “Tessie” ringtone, but you move on.

And Duke-UNC plays twice, three times a year at max. They could play for another 7000 years at this rate and while people are teleporting to their flying cars, each time will have one more than five…thousand times. Not five.

And to actually win five times, while the other team is pantsing you, or bribing the ref, or hiding the ball under their shirt takes moxie. It takes luck. It takes one of those cheat codes you put in your Madden game that allows unlimited stamina. But it has happened.

A rivalry can be one sided but to truly achieve monumental status, one team’s victory has to mean something more than a year of bad blood or the occasional hangover at work the next day. It must be momentous. It must be life changing. It must involve confetti.

And besides, have any Laker or Celtic been on Scooby Doo?

No, Pau Gasol was not the Creeper zombie guy…next question…


And I Will Lead You…Not Just Because I Am Spartacus, But Because You Suck June 2, 2007

Posted by doctorolove in Movies, Music, Pop Culture Rants, Sports, TV.
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Just in case you were sleeping or you don’t own the magical cable compass that enables you to find the NBA games playing on your satellite provider (All of which were last seen somewhere between the local cable Access show and the network devoted strictly to macramé), the young phenom LeBron James did something this week that defies description. And no, it’s not hawking soda or shoes wearing a fake beard that looks like it was stolen straight from the 5th grade production of Oklahoma at Jackson Elementary school.

LeBron James SINGLEHANDEDLY won a game. And while I don’t mean it was like Space Jam where Michael Jordan scored every point while Looney Tunes characters did Looney tunes things or that Bugs Bunny cartoon where he beats the Gashouse Gorillas (Fact: That cartoon marked the first appearance of the over used “Ball player screaming I Got It over and over than being hit and ending up dead beneath a tombstone reading “He Got It” which itself was based on an unfortunate 1920’s ballplayer that was later documented in “The Short Life of BatShit Blind Magee: The Musical.) LeBron had other players on the court with him. He was playing a team in Detroit that has been for years trying to bring the snuggly, feel-good reputation of the 1994 Knicks (Make a basket…get a knee to the groin…everyone wins.) But his surrounding players all looked like Mike Myers during the Katrina benefit when Kanye went on about George Bush and his, um, predilection towards a certain race. They couldn’t hit the side of a barn if you lathered the barn in aluminum siding and made the ball look like the Epcot ball and coated it with magnets. The team would put up a nail biter against the Midvale School for the blind or the Special Olympics team from Russia (Though they are in wheelchairs, those Russian kids do have mad ups though).

And none of this is exaggeration. The rest of the Cleveland Cavaliers are that bad. And LeBron’s feat was that amazing. He scored 29 of his team’s last thirty points. For you math nerds, that means he scored 97% of his team’s last 30 points (Don’t be too impressed…I stayed awake in 6th grade algebra just because I had a crush on Meghan Delaney who sat across from me…She had pink braces, carried a My Pet Monster pencil case and consistently smelled like Debbie Gibson’s Electric Youth, the “it” fragrance of mid 80’s middle schoolers.) He was making shots that you’ve only seen Jordan and Bird make in McDonald’s commercial. He put his team on his back, carried them, stopped for a drink, realized they still needed to be carried, grumbled a bit and put them right back on his shoulders.  Just when you thought Detroit would wise up and triple team and force one of the other guys on the court to make a shot, he still sliced through them, often dunking and making a victory face that looked like a combination of an orgasm look and that Aw Shucks look extremely talented people make when they’re trying to be humble.

Surely, though, this has had happened before in team sports. A great player can put his team on his back and will them to victory. Michael Jordan did it so often; it was more news when he had an average night. Joe Namath willed the Jets to a Super Bowl victory despite wearing fur underwear and a leisure suit under his uniform. And Reggie Jackson’s Afro hit two home runs in a World Series game (His Fu Manchu moustache went 2 for 4 with a double and an Intentional walk, though. Always never did live up to its’ facial hair potential.) Sports are the rare case when superhuman ability of one can trump average abilities of several others. Like when Superman went against the entire canon of Kryptonian villains. He won, despite almost being permanently distracted by their amazingly snug leather jumpers borrowed from the set of Xanadu.

But that gets me thinking. There is no possible way this can happen in any other aspect of pop culture. Sports are by definition a black and white entity. You win or you lose. And while some may say pop culture has no competitive nature, tell that to the guy who doesn’t sell well on billboard while a glorified Now That’s What I Call A Mix Tape with his big single on it outsells him by a million albums. So here are the Spartacuses. The quick examples of how one person surrounded by enough talent to fill the cup the doctors makes you pee in during a physical, LeBronned themselves to success.

MUSIC – The Jackson Five

This one is easy. Back when he was still a kid and possessed over 80% of his own physical features, Michael Jackson carried his brothers like Chewy carried the dismantled C-3PO. Think about it. You had cute little powerhouse Michael. Tito. Jermaine. Um, Andrew. Action Jackson? Get the point.

Michael did all the work. His brothers simply looked like they were trying real hard to dance the way chorus members do when Barbra Streisand was in a musical. Pull Focus and somebody will have your nuts on a platter. Can you, quickly, name one song they let anybody else sing lead vocals on? I mean, even when the Beatles let Ringo sing, they made the song so out there, you couldn’t help but laugh at him and shrug the same way you do when you child breaks into the peanut butter and smears it all over your vintage Cheryl Tiegs poster. And they had every major Motown hit for something like ten years. They called it the Jackson Five. Though really the talent level, maybe, was more like the Jackson 2.18 (Rumor has it Tito cooked a mean frittata)

(Special shout out to the early nineties band Bonham. The band was named after the DRUMMER, which is ort of like naming your NASCAR team after the guy who changes the tire. Sure, he’s important and keeps things going, but besides ex-drum majors, who’s there to see the drummer?)

TV – Bosom Buddies

An entry into the realm of 80’s sitcoms when all you needed was a premise so outrageous, it could buy you at least ten episodes. It had everything working against it. Men in drag (There is the long standing corollary that only British men and obscenely tall black men are funny in drag. Short, squat, white American men are creepy.) Donna Dixon (who if not married to the Jabba the Hut that is Dan Aykroyd would be nothing more than the punchline to one of the greatest jokes ever on the Simpsons). And a Billy Joel theme song. Not even sung by Billy Joel.

Yet it’s one joke premise was kept on for almost three seasons. And why? Tom Hanks. The man had talent and even made the writing (a step above Chimps on Typewriters and the most recent Spiderman script) sound witty. He played off Peter Scolari (Who?) and traded barbs with Wendy Jo Sperber (a talent so great they didn’t even bring her back for the second Back to the Future). That’s like succeeding in the 100-meter dash while wearing clown shoes and leg weights. Tom Hanks willed a premise so thin and writing so bad. I think the show even got an Emmy nomination (though that may not be a big deal…think the words Emmy nominee Jm J. Bullock…nuff said there)

MOVIES – The first Pirates of the Caribbean

It was a movie based on a RIDE. Not a book, not a cartoon, not even a comic strip. It was based on a theme park ride. You know, the thing you wait in sweltering heat for 90 minutes for, it lasts for 2 minutes and you walk out going, “Really? That was it.” It was directed by the guy who did The Mexican.  (You screwed up a movie with Julia Roberts, Brad Pitt and Tony Soprano? Seriously, I could direct that using a marionette version of myself that speaks in Farsi and still have a decent film) And the bad guys were skeletons borrowed from a Harryhausen film. Surely, this can’t make any money, let alone garner any viewers. But enter Johnny Depp.

He swaggered. He swished. He made us all gape that he was acting his ass off and in a Disney film no less. People lined up to see him dash across the scene and deliver one-liners. And while the other young leads have gone on to promising careers, back then they were simply “the kid from Lord of the Rings who played the elf” and “Say, you’re sure that’s not Natalie Portman?” Johnny Depp carried that movie so far, they gave him two sequels. They banked millions into him and by the end of the third he was phoning it in. Surely, that makes him the ultimate Spartacus.

So I congratulate LeBron. He has announced his arrival on the scene and I applaud him for it. But don’t rest on your laurels just yet. Because everybody else is resting on theirs and they ain’t got no stinking laurels. Being the loadbearer can be a bitch. Pretty sure Tom Hanks says that to Peter Scolari every day while Peter washes his car and grooms his cat.

Like My Grandpa Used to Say…I Feel A Draft in Here! April 27, 2007

Posted by doctorolove in Pop Culture Rants, Sports.
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I love metaphors. They’re my crutch, my go-to. When I’m in need of a pithy point or skewed view of our pop culture universe, I embrace them like the last girl at the bar after they’ve given last call (Wow…you see that..using a metaphor to describe my love of metaphors..We’re through the looking glass people…)

On Saturday and Sunday, the 32 teams that comprise the NFL will have their version of a debutante ball, only the women in frilly dresses that look like inverted tulips are replaced with tall, often shapeless large men in designer suits of all colors of the rainbow. It is every teams chance to wipe away the mistakes of last season and give a young lump of clay to chance to mold himself into a future black of iron that they will describe in slow motion with the big booming voice of the NFL Films guy. You can patch up the holes that riddle your team like a 1920’s Mob car post gangland battle with human Bondo. And men will watch it like a real, live event, knowing that even though there will be no score, some man with fabulously coiffed hair will give you grades (which matter about as much as the questions on Press Your Luck.)

Now, many people have used metaphors, AKA my one true love, to discuss the draft. They’ve even used the draft itself to act as a metaphor for other things in life (Mike Golic and his Dandy Doodles spring to mind). Yet I find the draft too big for metaphor. The NBA Draft is two rounds long, meaning you get two choices, maybe three if you can bribe the Grizzlies to trading with you (They’re like the Life Cereal’s Mikey of the NBA…try it..they’ll like it.) Two choices make it all the more important. Even the best marksmen in the world can’t hit the mark perfect with only two shots. But if you give them 12 shots (the number of NFL draft rounds) even they can hit a target. No, the NFL draft is a metaphor amongst itself. One big, lumbering bowl of metaphor. Every pick, every angle, every time they utter the words, “The next team is on the clock.” They even use metaphor to describe each pick. Think about the term “on the clock.” You think ticking time bomb. You think sweaty, overweight movie second banana wondering which wire to cut. And each pick is a wire…you take the flashy wide receiver…blue wire…BOOM, your team implodes like an abandoned warehouse full of cocaine. You take the mammoth defensive end with the soft spoken family and the dad who is a preacher…red wire…wipe the sweat off and bask in the accolades.

Now being that the Draft is one big metaphor, each pick is like a tiny little metaphor amongst  itself. If the whole draft is a big Whitman’s Sampler of Metaphorical goodness, each pick is the chocolate collection. The first pick is the mountaintop. You’re the emperor, with everything in front of you. But do you act benign and choose wisely. Or do you make a mistake and wind up like a French King, head on the chopping block wishing you didn’t suggest the cake. The second pick is the porter at Studio 54. Sure, you may not be the sexy shirtless bartender or the decadently coiffed member of the disco set. Heck, you’re not even the well-endowed coat check girl. You’re second-class, but the perks are yours. You get to rifle through the couches of everything left behind. Sure, you may find a used prophylactic or prick yourself with a needle but there are far more vials of drugs and left over coke ridden wadded up hundreds for you to scrounge up.

The metaphors roll blindly on. The third pick is the socks at Christmas. They’re not flashy and the gifts you really wanted have gone to the other kids. But socks can be amazing. Ask the grunts of Vietnam. Ask the Eskimos in the dead of Alaskan winter. Heck, ask Jim Henson. Pick four…the kid in high school that everybody likes but no one finds attractive. Pick four is who he’s taking to prom. Sure, the hot girls are all going with their quarterback boyfriends and even that somewhat attractive goth girl is going with the soccer jock (It may or may not be because of a wager…still checking on that…). But you can still get somebody to go with you. There’s still plenty of fish in the sea. But who do you take? Do you take the girl who will give you a sure “good after party” or do you take that girl you’ve been secretly composing songs about on the guitar you found in the “cool uncles” basement? Choices..choices. Pick five…well that’s the four cards to a flush. You can bet and scare everyone off or you can bet big and scare everybody. But you might get called…who knows?

Which now brings us to pick six. Pick six is scientifically proven to have no metaphor whatsoever. It is because of this that the team sitting at pick number six is in the luckiest spot in the draft. They probably don’t have that glaring of a list of needs. Picking at six meant your team went, what, 6-10. Two of those tough losses with the mysterious fumble or “jobbing you hard” holding calls go your way and you may be in the playoffs. And the major picks are all gone. You can actually survey the landscape. Plus the odds are that somebody has already reached for somebody who just didn’t deserve to be that high. You can go many ways and the kicker is, you don’t have to pay that all that much. Sure, it’s the NFL and the salary will probably be able to buy most of the town of Green Bay, but in relation to the 70 jillion the high picks are getting.  It’s a win-win. And there’s no metaphor. Though you’re still on the clock. And that bad boy is ticking.

So watch this weekend. Sure, it’s the male version of the Oscars (ooooh, what is Brady Quinn wearing?….I love Calvin Johnson in that suit…) but if anything it provides hope. Just know this…no matter how many names you see this weekend and how many metaphors fall like rain, half the picks will disappear. Half will be arrested. And half of those will wind up starring in a movie with Tia Carrere. So, nothings a sure thing. Except metaphor.

Well, death and taxes too, but that’s what English cases call an idiom. And idioms work better in the MLS draft. They don’t deserve metaphor yet.

Sittin’ On The Dock of Pop Culture…Biding Time (Cue Off-Key Whistling) March 29, 2007

Posted by doctorolove in Movies, Pop Culture Rants, Sports, TV.
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It’s the pop culture equivalent of down time. The equivalent of that horrid time of the school year between MLK Day and Spring Break when there is absolutely no major holiday to let off steam. It’s the equivalent of waiting to see the doctor, only the doctor is a really cool piñata with Crème Eggs, gold doubloons and naked pictures of Kim Fields circa the Tootie days. It’s the dogdays of spring where those of us who drool over all aspects of pop culture rescind our spit ducts like reversed Pavlov dogs. It’s the time of the year WHEN ABSOLUTELY NOTHING happens in the world of sports, movies and TV.

Think about it. In the world of movies, it’s that icky period for most major studios and more than a few “major” indie houses. They’ve just unleashed all their Christmas blockbusters and arty, Oscar-caliber movies. They’ve even dropped a star studded romantic comedy on us to siphon some cash from guys who like cheap Valentine’s Day dates. And we are just a few mere weeks from the summer movie season, where every explosion, every gore filled cop buddy flick and every star studded gross out laugh fest has been screened, tweaked and rescreened to within an inch of the script’s life. SO for about t two months, studios are forced to release films like 300 or Ghost Rider. Sure, each will take home 100 million or so in receipts, but the studios know that each of these would be swept under the rug by movies that have more going for them in the summer. I mean, 300 lacks the major aspect of a great summer movie: Plot. Oh, and acting. And line delivery. And general merit to overall society. Though, 300 is a major Dog Day problem solver. It answers to both men and women. Guys get visceral blood and guts as well as women with what can only be described as Princess Leia in Jabba the Hut lingerie, but as if it was designed by that smarmy guy who sat behind you in 10th grade French. Women get sweaty men, clothed even less than their female counterparts, sweating and running into one another. The dog days usually gives us garbage but 300 solves that age old problem of just how to get through the crap.  If you exploit it, they will come. Exploitation doesn’t work for the summer, at least not when the next week, there’s something coming out that may just exploit something better. Simple exploitation when there is nothing to compare it to jogs our Pavlovian side. This film could signal the death of the dog days. Well, at least for movies.

Because TV, well, there’s that old chestnut. Sweeps are over and not coming back for at least two more months. It’s re-run time for our favorite shows. We’ve already Tivoed or discussed on message boards everything we are seeing again. And unless it’s Lost, you probably didn’t miss the nuances the first time (Nuance is a word they just don’t understand on Grey’s Anatomy)  Sure, it’s nothing compared to summer when clip shows and  bad overplayed movies dot the network landscape. TV tries to fool us by released the shows they didn’t think would work back in September. They try packaging them not with re-runs, but with “See What You Missed.” Are they really that stupid that they think that our schedules have diminished any less that now, some five months later, we have time to watch what we couldn’t find time to watch then? Actually, yes, because they package it with American Idol or The Amazing Race. There is no re-hashing of live (or semi-taped) reality shows. You have to be there when it happens. And the TV people know this. They know that with these reality shows, you can’t afford to miss out, lest we be the oil encrusted third wheel at the water cooler the next morning. SO they package these new show with their new returning reality show and we are forced to watch. Usually because the sudden heat has zapped our energy and we just don’t have the stomach for anything else in the Vast Wasteland. So maybe, TV is fixing the dog days.

But we just can’t save sports. And there is no amount of talking it out.  We are smack dab in a grey area. Baseball doesn’t really start for another month (Watching the first few games of any season is like watching a baby learning to walk…and the baby’s not yours and has had a few TGI Friday’s Hi Octane Iced Teas) Football is now over and while watching players being drafted is more exciting than what we got now, even that isn’t for a few weeks. Basketball and Hockey have playoff races, though, right. Besides the fact that in order to find either sport on TV nowadays you need a compass, a TV Guide and a Sherpa wearing a 1976 Lew Alcindor jersey, the games, well, they suck. The new point system in hockey is tougher to figure out than any baseball statistic (and those only matter in fantasy games.) And basketball’s new parity has resulted in teams tanking their seasons faster than the Germans tore out of Leningrad (Oh that’s right…a history reference…and it’s probably anachronistically incorrect…That’s right…an SAT word…also probably incorrect.) The teams that are in contention are so pitiful, it’s like a game of Hot Potato that 20,000 people are paying 50 bucks a pop to see. Sports are garbage right now. And though TV has its reality and movies have bloody Trojans, we have nothing. Can that be fixed? Probably not. And don’t even give me your XFL debate. It’s not football if you cannot get frostbite while watching it. And soccer is even harder to find than other sports. And I sprung for the “Direct TV package with Sherpa service.” Don’t use him for that but his tea is magical.

So for now, we wait. And maybe that’s good. Because have you seen the black suit people? I rest my case. And my tastes. For now.

Daddys, Let Your Babies Grow Up To Kick For The Cowboys March 7, 2007

Posted by doctorolove in Sports.
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It barely made the football news wire. It was sandwiched just below “Oakland Raiders equipment manager found sniffing jocks after the teams 2nd victory” and slightly above “Peyton Manning goes to the mini mart and buys Ho-Ho’s.” In big block letters, you will see it and even though we didn’t notice it, it may have single handedly changed the course of parenting for the next twenty years. It read, “The Cowboys have reached an agreement on a five-year, $8.5 million contract with punter Mat McBriar.” Yup, that’s right and for those of you who spent most of high school math hanging out at the food court and eating 3.95 Bourbon Chicken with three sides (I recommend the yellow rice but stay away from the green beans), Mat McBriar is making 1.7 million dollars a year. To punt.

To put things in monetary perspective, that is more than their starting quarterback, their starting tight end, their starting running back and the guy who refills the Gatorade when T.O. takes a whiz in it combined. You can answer 15 questions from Meredith Viera and still make less that Mat McBriar. You could not pay taxes for the next twenty years and Mat would still be able to bail you out of jail, pay your taxes and take you and several thousand of the friends you made in the joint to Hooters for .50 cent wing night (Hey, the man isn’t made of money!)

Now, this may just seem like another case where Jerry Jones has completely gone off his rocker or McBriar caught him watching Grey’s Anatomy in the owner’s box while wearing a “I Heart McDreamy” T-shirt. Whatever the reason (and I think it’s a combination of the two…only the shirt says “I Brake For Whiny Doctors”) I did say it changed the course of parenting. Because it’s giving dads, who live vicariously through their children, an outlet. And it’s an outlet where previous important aspects, such as athletic ability and body shape and size, have absolutely no need.

This nation is riddled with fathers who truly believe that their children can fulfill their own dreams of athletic stardom. They are more dangerous than stage mom’s, who more often than not have a stage credit or two (usually playing Amanda in the local theatre’s production of Glass Menagerie directed by some old, fat bald local “artist” who has lived for twenty years off the fact he was a swing in A Chorus Line in 1984.) They tasted the limelight and it is that which fuels them. Sideline dads, however, never played in any major league. The closest most of them got may have been playing on the same field with some guy who got to walk on with a Canadian league expansion team. To them, the son will be the dream whereas the mother thinks she can use the child’s dream to fulfill her own.

Before the signing last week, fathers knew early on whether they could force their child forward. Tossing the ball in the backyard or running around the neighborhood at a young age is usually a good test. If your child has several broken ocular bones or huffs and wheezes like Tony Soprano, your dream gets buried faster than Mandy Moore skin pics. Now, with punting a viable option, athletic ideals have lowered the bar. Simply teach him how to kick and who knows what will happen?

The punter is the most inconsequential job on a football team. Your job is to simply kick the ball high and far. While that may seem like an important and difficult task, you are, as a punter, ostensibly cleaning up after the real stars of them have stunk up the joint. A kicker is brought in when there’s some semblance of performance, be it a decent drive or a miracle interception. A punter is called when nothing happens. That must weigh on your psyche, huh?

And punters? They play for years. The oft-traveled Sean Landeta, I think, has played for every team ever and picks up his Social Security check after every game is over. While he may never have gotten a fat McBriar contract, he still gets to hang in the locker room, pal around with mega star athletes and occasionally catch the crumbs of wealth, women and endorsement deals that dribble free from the fed mouths of the giants they play with. (Non-Shakespearean description: They screw the fallout.)

And now with all that, you have money. Before punters were behind the scenes, often making pittance sums. Now with McBriar’s contract, you get the cake, can eat it too and can buy a few thousand more cakes and eat those as well. And you can eat as many of those cakes as you want, because the punter doesn’t have to be fit. In fact, science even proves that the gut can add an extra two or three seconds of hangtime (Also known as the Ron Jeremy Flab is Fab theory)

And they need punters too. In fact, there are so few good punters in our fair country, they’ve been invading Europe and Australian to find the right guy to clean up after their million dollar offenses. That should irk you, Sideline Dads. Why should real athletes get the job you are grooming your apathetic child for? I mean, soccer players have to run and jump and kick with ACCURACY. Surely, your plan will be thwarted if these “people with skill” continue their ascent on the position you can so easily grab. I mean, your kid can grab. Remember we’re not stage moms, right?

So take heart fathers of sons who have slightly less athletic prowess than John Goodman on a good day. Simply master the art of the punt (which is mostly mathematic in nature) and you can tell your whole group of friends, co-workers and those jerks you went to high school with that you have a son in the NFL. Unless he shanks one in the big game.

At that point, you have a child who sells cars. And that’s probably going to be true soon anyway. The Used Car salesman track is littered with the failed dreams of ex-athletes. In fact, Scott Norwood just sold me a really good Vespa. And, he WAS a kicker.