sl.blog

October 24, 2006

I, on the Irish

Filed under: Uncategorized — blogadmin @ 10:11 pm

Okay, maybe it was only my sister Kathleen that missed her baby brother’s blog, but I must admit: I kinda miss cranking it out. My short-lived, semi-professional football existence came to a crashing end (albeit one I’m rather thankful for) early this month. And that pretty much broke this blog’s back. So what could I possibly have left to say, dear reader? My sweet, voracious reader.

Well hear me out. Anyone who knows me knows of my love for Fighting Irish football. I’ll apologize to the haters up front. I realize I can’t throw a decent spiral, Notre Dame wasn’t accepting “C” students like me when I left high school, and I don’t even go to Mass anymore. Still I pray for the Irish on Saturdays, come close to weeping when they win tight games, and consider killing when they lose. Not anyone in particular, just myself or small squirrels.

So here I begin again. This will be my take on the Irish. For great facts, stats, funny stories, videos, and much more, check out these dudes at Blue-Gray Sky. It’s all the Notre Dame football stuff you’ll ever want, all year long. I met Jay, one of the founders, at a Purdue-ND tailgate and he’s a nice guy with a good thing going.

My story: I’m a bit of a naval gazer looking for a subject. When I say “I, on the Irish” I’m using the pronoun in the Bob Marley sense. As in, “Old pirates yes they rob I; Sold I to the merchant ships.” Could that be anymore offensive dropping from the fingers of a “C” student from the suburbs? But hereafter will be me—partly punny, semi-gonzo, or completely blotto—sharing stories with you, my tasty reader, of how I spent my Saturdays cheering on the Irish.

The season’s on the back nine (which would only make sense if I were writing about golf), so you shouldn’t have to bear with me too much longer. This past Saturday, I left a sleeper of a Wisconsin-Purdue game to catch the start of UCLA-Notre Dame. I went to a bar called Rowdy’s, which used to be a Burger King—named after the Purdue mascot (Rowdy, not Burger King) made of the same material as the giant penis that occasionally floats through the student section. There I found plenty o’costumed college kids, some of whom had been hitting the booze since breakfast. Not surprisingly, Purdue was losing on every television, 17-3. I didn’t like my chances of having even one channel turned, so I made a longer walk to the Levee and a bar called Scotty’s.

Long story short, because I’m already starting to bore myself with this one, I watched the Irish struggle against a gritty UCLA team. Brady Quinn was much sacked. The Irish defense looked from time-to-time capable of giving up the big play (which they did) and indifferent to tackling (though the defense played well overall). And as the game wore on, I’m thinking, “Wait, they could lose this.”

The bar grew red around me: Wisconsin fans. When my lady friend arrived, I’d whisper into her easily humored ear, “Badgers, we don’t need no stinking Badgers.” Not once did she laugh. Late in the game my buddy Dunn (who looks a little like the Fighting Irish mascot) called. I told him to get his lucky ass to the bar.

You saw the ending. It’s been in all the papers. The Irish, snubbed on a fourth and one, had to force a three and out from the Bruins, all while calling timeouts (which they kept) for any hope of a miracle. And it happened: 80 yards in about a half a minute in three big passes, the last of which was the Medicine Man Quinn pump faking, and then finding the Minor League pitcher Samardzija, who scampered to the end zone. I kissed the lady friend. Nearly tea-bagged Dunn (he ain’t all that tall). And did get a little misty-eyed. Later, on the replay on Westwood One, I heard Don Criqui’s voice cracking on the call. Half the world is weeping like wee little Irish men. The other half hates Notre Dame, so get bent. More next week when this naval gazer watches the Irish take on Navy.

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October 9, 2006

The Longest Blog

Filed under: Uncategorized — blogadmin @ 6:07 pm

Our long season came to a dismal final end on Saturday with a 14-3 loss to the Michiana Titans. Disappointing to say the least, especially given the fact that we’d beaten this team 31-0 in the season opener. But with turnabout being fair play and our turnovers falling in abundance (anyone counting them on his digits would have used two full hands and gone to his zipper for at least one other) the Lions really gave this one away.

For their part the Titans, who didn’t field more than 20 guys, took care of the pigskin and had some success on draws, while a fairly mobile quarterback kept out of harm’s way. Plus, their two-way players picked up several balls dropped and a few thrown. Our defense stood tough as always, but we couldn’t overcome double-digit turnovers, which oddly enough sounds like a MacDonald’s treat for cannibals. “Umm, double-digit turnovers. It’s got twice the fingers!”

With the abrupt end, I’ve stewed for about a day and half, trying to make sense of the season. I’m sure my father, who in his 82^nd year watched me play a couple of weeks ago as a rookie in my 41^st, would look for some sort of numerical perspective. He’s quite the number cruncher. In the 1970s, he remembered our phone number by reciting, “He rose at 8 and took 465 to get to work by 9:20.” I don’t know what slack boss would let you roll in at 9:20, but I should probably be working there.

Another time, my dad came up with an equation that measured his loves and losses in palindromes. “I lost my mother at 11 and met your mother at 22,” he told me. “We spent 44 years together, which took me to 66. And if I live to be 88, which I hope to hell I don’t, that means I’ll have spent half my life without her.”

I suppose I could look to the numbers when scanning our season for meaning. If you count the preseason win and the post-season loss, we ended up an even five and five—our good and bad times divided equally in half. Personally, I was proudest to be a Lion after two losses (to Kankakee and Indianapolis), when we rallied together only to fall just short in both comebacks.

I could also go to the roster on the Lions link to look at the names of the men I played with. Of those 50-plus players, we lost a handful to injuries while a baker’s dozen quit along the way. Our head coach left after the season’s third game. But there’s some real symmetry on both sides of the ball. Two offensive-minded brothers from “the region,” who off the field work in emergency and medical fields, were never short on advice or wisecracks. Two defensive brothers straight off the farm hit like they were harvesting pain. And a father and son team fired off on the defensive line with forearm shivers late into the season. You can still almost hear the younger man’s children screaming in Attica, “Rip his head off, Grandpa!”

Otherwise I spent some time with some really good former division one athletes, a few of whom even spent some time in the NFL. One of the world’s strongest men (really, he’s going to Africa to compete with others for the title) paved running paths on from his position on the offensive line. Some kids barely out of high school seemed like they could sprint for days from various gunner positions. And a big man named Boogie told me not to chase to the outside when blocking on points after touchdowns.

In practice I dreaded a “nine route” that put me directly in the path of some happy-hitting veteran linebackers. I learned the passing tree (most of it) from a guy who ran routes perfectly. But the only thing thrown my way all year was a number 13 jersey misfired in the locker room after the last game. Early on though, I made my first tackle in pads since the late 1970s on the young man who’s trying to get me in shape for next season.

Who knows if there will be a next year? I was too old, slow, and well-mannered for this semi-pro business seven years ago. I’d be wise to make a memory of it now. Save my hamstrings for jogging and less violent, more leisurely diversions. I’ve never been too wounded working with words. I don’t have any grandchildren (though it’s a numerical possibility had I been more popular in high school), but I suppose I could tell them one day about an on-sides’ kick recovery I had that kept us alive against the Sabers. Oh, I can build on that one for years.

Really I’m just grateful on having survived the season that dates back to the week before Memorial Day, when field-turf scrapes quickly turned to ankle sprains and hamstring aches. Either I’m lucky, or someone up there does indeed like me. Even as a lapsed Catholic, I wasn’t above an occasional sign of the cross before a kickoff or a tug at the St. Jude medal around my neck and beneath my pads. The patron saint of lost causes and possibly improbable dreams, St. Jude may have kept my spine in place. A good doctor in Indianapolis helped heal my hammies, which he likened in stiffness to oak trees, and I’m hoping that I may find my wind somewhere along a running path in the off season. So watch out for next year. Because if I return—God, legs, and coaching staff willing—I’m getting defensive.

Thanks to everyone—be you teammate, reader, family member, or friend—who’s endured my egocentric stint into immersion journalism. As a writer I’m usually more of a bleeder than a blogger, so I appreciate everyone who’s had to stumble through these “mind fields.” As this rush of words stops one shy of 1,000, the blog stops here.

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September 29, 2006

Bill’s Song

Filed under: Uncategorized — blogadmin @ 9:09 pm

We watched film last night at Coach Dion Price’s place of our final regular-season game: a nail-biter in which the Lions fell less than a foot short of tying the game with a field goal as time expired. And with the clock stoppage, the expiration of our season in a 30-27 loss to the Indianapolis Sabers. Still we’re alive for the playoffs (beginning October 7^th in Attica), and the lads mounted an impressive two-touchdown comeback in the fourth quarter. Today, the local paper even gave us some pub.

I must say that I look fatter and balder on film than I do in my mind’s eye. But it’s given me plans for the off season. A few weeks ago I began working out under the guidance of teammate Mike Woodard, a former Boilermaker player who does double duty on our team as a hard-hitting defensive back and a hard-charging running back. In our three-a-week workouts we hit shoulders and chest on Sunday, hammer the legs and abs on Tuesday, and on Thursdays we shave my body hair, oil up, and practice posing. Mike calls me Will, which has never been my name, but it seems to be a motivational technique.

Last Saturday, because we fell behind early and spent the evening playing catch-up against the Sabers in the rain, I didn’t get any offensive action. On special teams, however, I was lucky enough to flatten some poor bastard who didn’t see me coming on a kickoff. But it may have been him (hell-bent on revenge) who caught me shortly thereafter in what seemed like a clip, felt like whiplash in my neck, and sent my helmet flying. Sadly, the film caught neither of those images.

The film did catch “The Play” of my semi-professional career. I figure I could spill about 10,000 blog words (like an Eskimo describing all the variants of snow) on it, but I’ll save that long wind for the book. Down 30 to 20 with time running out, we needed an on-side’s kick recovery to have any hope of getting back in the game. Coach told us to stack our line and have the first four guys simply “knock someone’s dick in the dirt.” I thought that would be in poor taste, so I simply ran down and jumped on a ball that one or two of their guys fumbled. Beneath the pile, with Sabers clawing at my eyes, chewing on my hamstrings, and doing unspeakable things to what I’d rather not have anywhere near the dirt, I was just yelling, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”

I arose from that pile, tossed the ball to one of the late-arriving referees (I think they were smoking pot in the parking lot before the game), and gave a black power salute to my friends and family in the stands. My lady friend almost wept. For a minute, I felt a little like the autistic kid who hit all those three-pointers. And later, as the skies unleashed a mighty rain upon us, even the Fighting Irish came back and beat Michigan State in a stunning victory. The love of Jesus filled this Lion’s heart and I slept peacefully without having to get too drunk.

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September 19, 2006

Winning Streaks, Getaways, and a Dog Gone to Jesus

Filed under: Uncategorized — blogadmin @ 2:34 pm

I’ve been away from the blog. My apologies to those of you who set your clock by it. I decided I needed to get away from my suck-ass job, so I spent two weeks in Florida working on my beer gut and sand angels. I may have gained eight pounds in fruity drinks and fresh shrimp. All to my hips! The beaches stunk with whatever Ernesto drudged up from the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, but the inactivity was pretty cool.

On the football front, the Lions have won three games in a row since we last spoke. By rolling up a total of 75 points against Lake County teams (the Chiefs from Chicago and the Steelers from Indiana), the boys even had the offense in the best shape of its season. It’s been an odd season with guys coming and going. But when team owner Frank Jordan (half-a-century-young) suited up, thus began the winning streak.

Of course there was a bit of yelling and screaming at halftime when we trailed the Chiefs by a point, but Mike Woodard helped get the running game in gear, and we rolled to a 34-8 victory. Yours truly made his first tackle on a late-game kickoff, even though official credit went to a player who hasn’t been here in weeks.

With a bye week over Labor Day weekend, I headed south and missed the second Lake County massacre. Can’t believe they won without me. When I returned, I saw our last “home” game was in a place called Attica. I feared we were playing a prison team, but was pleasantly surprised to see the visitors from Illinois, getting off their bus unchained. We won 21-12, but looked a bit sloppy late in the game. Still we’ll take that win, totaling four against three losses going into the last game in Indy.

For my Indy friends and family, I plan on lobbying this week in practice for at least one ball thrown to me. The plea is now officially part of the blog. Come on out to Heritage Christian and see us spar with the Indianapolis Sabers. What’s that? Lions and Tigers? Oh my.

On a sad note, my dog, Jack, died. He’d been getting old (16), and his legs and hips were worse than my hamstrings. He was losing interest in food and just life, I guess. When I got home Friday he was down to 17 pounds of fur, bone, and stink. I was worried about not getting a chance to say goodbye to him as he took a turn for the worse, so maybe he held on a few days for me.

He was a good sport. That’s him above, ever the underdog playing Sonny Liston to an underwear model’s Muhammad Ali. RIP Jack Kerouac. (He was named for a football player turned writer and drunk.) I know if there’s a dog spelled backwards in the great beyond, my best friend on four legs was somehow renewed, howling about the illegal block in the back that some fat guy flattened me with last Saturday. Peace.

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August 26, 2006

Marky Mark: Mediocrity in Slow Motion

Filed under: Uncategorized — blogadmin @ 2:52 pm

Seeking any inspiration beyond anabolic steroids, I went to the opening of “Invincible” last night. I had heard it was Mark Wahlberg’s best work since the Funky Bunch, and the true story of a bartender turned special teamer for the Philadelphia Eagles in some ways mirrors my own little foray into football. But the film fizzled on the big screen.

An estimated running time of one hour and forty some minutes turned into two hours with all the slow-motion running scenes. Wahlberg is a bit of a low-key actor, making Kevin Costner look like Chris Farley (before he died). The music is pretty good with some 1970s classics from Jim Croce, Rod Stewart, Grand Funk Railroad, the James Gang, and muy mas.

I thought I noticed a bit of sexual tension in one scene where Coach Dick Vermeil, played by Greg Kinnear who didn’t even shed a God damn tear (how realistic is that?), saw Vince (Marky Mark) shirtless, wrapping his own ribs. What a treat for the audience to get a taste of some serious Dick on Dirk Diggler Boogie Nights action. But not in this Disney flick.

“Invincible” inspirational? Not really. I didn’t get too jazzed about the real-life Rocky running through the Philadelphia streets. “Predictable” might have been a better title. Or “A Pretty Cool Long Music Video.” But what’s it all mean to me? After all, I’m the egocentric blogger. I don’t think it will help my game much. I bet Marky Mark never thought a nervous yawn might be the onset of chronic fatigue syndrome as he lined up on the kickoff team. I bet the real-life Vince Papale never rooted for the clock to simply wind itself down in a game. And I don’t know if either of them would pace themselves through the Tuesday and Thursday practices as much as I do.

The Lions head to Lake County, Illinois, tonight to take on the Chiefs. In a cruel twist of fate for a clock watcher, I even gain an extra hour on the way there. What to do with that time? Oh yeah, fill it full of dread. I’ll lose it on the way back. To busy my mind, I’ll construct a top 10 football movie list. “Invincible” doesn’t make that team. To get the ball rolling, here’s one off the top of my head. Commentators, feel free to weigh in with yours.

1.       “Brian’s Song”
2.       “The Longest Yard” (the original)
3.       “Knute Rockne: All American”
4.       “Friday Night Lights”
5.       “North Dallas Forty”
6.       “Rudy”
7.       “Heaven Can Wait”
8.       “Radio”
9.       “Remember the Titans”
10.   “Paper Lion”

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