Only one South American team has ever won the World Cup on European soil (in 1958, 17-year-old Pelé scored two goals in the final to help Brazil beat host Sweden). My best guess is that a European team will win it. Call it a hunch, but I have a sneaking feeling that Dennis Bergkamp will come out of retirement and lead the Oranje to victory.

 

 

I can't take a team seriously if their best player is named Kaka. Dunga is fine, and so is Pujols, but Kaka? I know he puts an accent on the second syllable -- Kaká -- but that's just a workaround. If your last name is Shittehed or Pusse, throwing an accent onto the second syllable just shows denial: "Shittehéd makes a lovely touch and beats Pussé for a goal." Nope. Still sounds weird.

 

How does that single name thing work in Brazil? Does a player like Pelé give himself his own nickname, or does he have to reach a certain level before officials confer upon him a catchy name? I'd guess the former, which has to cause problems with mediocre players giving themselves a single name and then demanding to have Dooký on their jersey for their Tuesday night league matches. Or maybe they're given single names based on projected talent level, and guys like Kaka and Fred exceeded expectations. By the way, I don't care who Brazil is playing -- if Fred scores a goal, I'm going to whoop it up. (And yes, Fred is a real Brazilian player.)

 

 

I just hope Argentina plays England. This is my favorite rivalry in sports. I'd rather see this matchup than a Lakers-Celtics NBA Finals or a Cowboys-49ers Super Bowl. Argentines are still upset about the Falklands War, while the English are still upset about the Mano de Dios. The World Cup games between them have been tight and well-played, if not well-officiated. By the way, I was in Peru during the Falklands war (I knew it then as Las Malvinas). If you think Fox News isn't exactly fair and balanced, here's a rough translation of the headlines I saw as the war progressed:

 

Argentina at War with England!

 

Argentine Forces Gaining Ground!

 

Argentina Routing the British!

 

British Forces Set to Withdraw!

 

Argentina Surrenders with Dignity

 

Most Peruvians recognized that American missionaries had little or nothing to do with a war between England and Argentina, but I experienced some hostility. A short drunk guy tried to beat me up in a tienda, and someone threw a cement block at me from the top of a building. It's an odd feeling to recognize a perilous situation only after the threat is gone. There's almost a sense of guilt for not being more emotional. My companion and I just kept walking, and one of us casually said, "You know, that could have killed us." "Yep." But I digress. Argentina-Inglaterra 2006!

 

 

I know, I know -- Rooney is out for at least the round robin play, and Owen is banged up and likely out of form. Even though England's two best scorers are out, guys like Gerrard, Terry, and Lampard can still control the match. Besides, losing a big name like Rooney can take the pressure off a team. I would put them up higher, but it looks like David Beckham is going to play. If he were Brazilian, his name would be Sissý.

 

 

Yo, check it -- I'm going to be in Mexico when Mexico plays one of the preliminary games! If you disapprove of the exclamation mark, you (A) care nothing about sports in general or soccer in particular, (B) live somewhere in the world where everyone in your neighborhood is already piss-pants excited about the World Cup, or (C) have never experienced how thrilling it is to be in a country where everyone goes nuts for the World Cup. When I made travel plans, I wasn't even thinking about the World Cup, and now I'm looking forward to that Mexico game more than scuba diving or windsurfing. ¡Viva Mexico! ¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!

 

 

France - Thierry Henry is the most brilliant striker around, but France seems flat.

 

U.S. - No chance at all. They have to play above their heads just to get out of their group with Italy and the Czech Republic, two bona fide top 10 teams. And Ghana is no pushover.

 

Germany - They have home field advantage and they made it to the semi-finals in the last World Cup. You'd think they'd be considered favorites, but you don't hear a lot about them.

 

Italy - They were robbed by terrible officiating in 2002. This is my fourth favorite team, behind Peru, the U.S., and Mexico. Number 5 is England, for those of you who like a well-rounded list.

 

Baseball is a boring sport to watch most of the time, especially on television. But when the stakes are high and the game is close in the late innings, there's not a better spectator sport. If you saw any part of the 1975 World Series, you know what I mean. The Reds had solid pitching and a lineup that included Johnny Bench, Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and a highly underrated Tony Perez, who always came through in the clutch. The Red Sox had a hobbled Yaz, two great rookies, and the brilliant Luis Tiant. The series went back and forth. For Game 6, the Red Sox went up 3-0, fell behind 6-3, and then tied it up on Bernie Carbo's 2-out home run in the 8th. In the bottom of the 11th inning, with the score still tied 6-6, Carlton Fisk creamed the ball down the left field line. Usually, the camera shows the player in the outfield drifting back towards the fence, but for some reason, the camera stayed on Fisk as he hopped and waved the ball fair. When he saw the ball go over the Green Monster, he jumped high in the air and clapped manfully. It wasn't the most dramatic home run of all time -- that honor goes to Kirk Gibson -- but it was the best pure celebration. The Red Sox went on to win the World Series nearly 30 years later.

 

 

 

 

If the tennis stars from the late 70s / early 80s were playing today, I don't think nearly as many Americans would be rooting for Borg. Back in 1980, the Reagan-led patriotism was just beginning, and NBC wasn't nearly as jingoistic. Most people are fond of McEnroe now, but back then, people loathed him. Whenever he berated an umpire after a questionable call, people actually had the nerve to boo him. For reasons that are inexplicable to me, most Americans seemed to prefer that phoney Jimmy Connors over McEnroe. Anyway, at Wimbledon, when McEnroe met Borg in the final, McEnroe won a thrilling 4th set tiebreaker, and it looked like McEnroe was going to put an end to Borg's winning streak. Then Borg somehow managed to come back and win the 5th set, collapsing to the grass. That victory was all heart.

 

 

 

 

That was the one from the Gatorade commercial, where Michael Jordan dribbles left and pulls up for a jump shot. Craig Ehlo was right in his face, but Jordan adjusted in mid air, shot it, and went nuts. This was much better than his lame shot against the Jazz, when he pushed off on Bryon Russell and hit the jumper. I have a feeling that Jordan came back with the Wizards to prove that he could win a championship without cheating. No, I'm not bitter.

 

 

 

I'm actually surprised a soccer celebration made it on the list. Most soccer players celebrate like dorks. After they score a goal, they run AWAY from their teammates, sometimes pretending they're an airplane, and then they seem to run out of ideas, so they stop and let their teammates tousle their hair.

 

Hemingway said there are only three real sports -- bullfighting, mountain climbing, and car racing -- and the rest are games. I don't want to revisit the old "sport/not a sport" debate without my Top5 staff around to crunch the numbers, so I'll just tell you the most difficult, demanding sports for me. Unlike 90% of the entries on this blog, this list is not definitive.

 

 

It's like wrestling in the water. The referee pays attention to what goes on above the water, so basically anything goes under the water. You're exhausted from sprinting and fighting for position after being racked, and then you need to sprint again after a turnover, and you kick someone in the face right when someone else kicks you in the face, and it just doesn't feel like the universe is organized.

 

 

Boxing is easy when you're overmatched or undermatched, but it's incredibily demanding when you and your opponent are more or less evenly matched, like the time when Michael Flatley and I boxed each other for charity on that one Fox network special. I was tired and dizzy and bleeding, and the Feet of Flames kept rabbit punching me. Only the exertion of will allowed me to continue.

 

 

I haven't done much mountain climbing. Still, I was surprised at how mentally challenging my little glacier climbs were. And my sherpa was worse than useless.

 

 

I've just done short- and medium-range triathlons, so I'm including this by extrapolation. A knee injury pretty much destroyed the triathlon sport for me. Plus, my sponsors dropped me when news of my menage a trois with a couple of the Friends actresses was leaked. What can I say? I'm a man, and I have the wants, needs, and desires of a man. Adidas and Rogaine should understand that. Still, just training for a long-distance triathlon was painful.

 

 

Two words: bonk. Well, it looks like two words when you're that exhausted.

Disclaimer: The views represented in this blog entry are not necessarily the views of the Top 5 Staff. They are, however, the views of the MSN Blogspaces as well as the Microsoft collective.

 

 

First, there's Chad Hedrick, USA, who won the 5,000-meters long track speed skating race a week ago. He's a brash Texan being cheered on by Laura Bush, so I  immediately dislike him. But not as much as I dislike Shani Davis, USA, a sourpuss who celebrated his gold-medal victory by glaring at the camera. There's also Derek Parra, USA, who won this event in 2002, Joey Cheeks, who's already won gold and silver, and a sprinter named C. FitzRandolph, which is just a fantastic blue blood name. Plus, a couple of the Dutch and Italian sprinters could beat the American gold medalists. It's probably going to come down to Hedrick, who just set the world record time in this event, and Davis, who used to hold the world record before Hedrick broke it.

 

 

It's difficult to get the story straight, because these guys are more or less trying to say the right things to the press. Davis doesn't train with the U.S. team -- he trains with the Canadians -- and there seems to be bad blood between Davis and the U.S. establishment. That's always fun. It would be better if American speed skaters were stinking up the joint -- Davis could be the heroic outsider who saves the day, but Davis is just one of several U.S. long track skaters who are dominating. There's also Hendrick and Joey Cheeks, the guy who won the gold in the 500m and barely lost to Davis in the 1000m. I like Joey Cheeks. He seemed like a great guy even before I found out that he was donating his Olympic earnings ($25,000 from his gold medal and $15,000 from his silver medal) to charity. How can you root against a guy like that? Unfortunately, he's a sprinter on a slow track, so he doesn't have much of a chance.

 

 

This is an interesting situation for me. One of my favorite books growing up was a biography of Jackie Robinson. I loved the triumphant underdog story. I used to imagine myself playing for the Brooklyn Dodgers and fighting alongside Jackie, occasionally giving emotional speeches in which I rail against prejudice and bigotry. On the other hand, I've pretty much stopped watching NBA basketball because there aren't enough American-born white players that I can identify with.

 

You may have seen the headlines: "Shani Davis First Black to Win Individual Olympic Gold Medal." I understand this may be exciting news for some people, but I don't get goose bumps anymore when I hear that a black person has broken down the barriers in a sporting event. This isn't exactly Jackie Robinson territory. Then again, maybe it will bring in some people like Bryant Gumble. Here's what he said about the Winter Olympics:

Gumble's statement is silly in several ways -- no one really claims that bobsledders and ice dancers are the world's greatest athletes, so he's attacking a straw man he created -- but he's right in implying that blacks are the best athletes. I've heard some black commentators reject this claim because if you say blacks are superior athletically, it opens the door to say that blacks are inferior in other areas. But that's propaganda. I'm not into social programming.

 

So this Shani Davis situation has me questioning my motives for rooting against him. Does this have something to do with my racism, or is it more that I just didn't like him, especially when he barely beat the heroic Joey Cheeks? I remember working with a black cashier back when I was a lifeguard, and she accused me of not liking black people because I didn't like her. I told her that I didn't dislike her because she was black; I disliked her because she was a jerk. She was always complaining about not getting paid as much as the lifeguards who sat around while she did all the hard work, and she was always spoiling for confrontation. I avoided her. At the time, I thought I was right -- I wasn't a racist because I didn't want to be a racist -- but now that I think more about it, there may have been an element of racism in my disliking her. Maybe Shani Davis is sneering at the public for a reason. Still, I hope both he and Hedrick lose, even if it means the dreaded Dutch skaters take gold.

 

 

The U.S. wanted Davis to compete in the speed skating relay race, but Davis declined, saying he wanted to focus on his individual event. The U.S. team barely lost to eventual champion Italy, but it's likely the U.S. team would have won this new event had Davis raced. Then again, Davis beat Cheeks by only 0.3 seconds, and who knows whether he would have won if he had done the relay race? I don't fault Davis for not being on the relay race, but I have a feeling he wanted his teammates to lose. I'm telling you, there's more to this story. If anyone has any insight, let me know.

 

 

And it's on tape when I wake up in the morning. I can catch hours worth of coverage in a few minutes. I'll find out quickly tomorrow morning who wins this race.

 

During downhill practice, several women had nasty falls, including a French woman who is built like a fire hydrant and an American who must be made out of Gumby clay. After their crashes, the French woman looked like someone had smacked her in the face with a fence post, and the American spent the night in the hospital. A couple days later, both of them raced aggressively in the downhill, finishing strong. I was going to say that whenever I've crashed in a downhill prelim, I've had a difficult time getting back up to race, but that's simply not true. I usually come back and win the race. But that's me. I'm telling you, these women impressed me.

 

 

It's oddly compelling. I settle in with my platter of crumpets and let the curlers take me on an emotional roller coaster.

 

 

Thrilling races with speed and crashing and strategy. The men's competition was full of wipeouts, and an American guy came on to win it -- fitting for any of these new events from the X Games. I watched the women's race on the Canadian channel this morning, so if you don't want to hear what happened, don't read the next paragraph. By the way, the Canadian channel is the way to watch the Olympics. The production isn't as slick or pre-packaged as NBC's, and it's charming. I love Canada. I've been pushing my friends on Capitol Hill to annex Canada, but there's that tricky Quebec headache that Washington doesn't want to take on.

 

Spoiler: The American woman had a great race in the Snowboardcross, taking the early lead in the 4-person race. Both of the Canadian women fell down -- one was knocked out cold and the other flew off the course -- so the America had a wide lead over the Swiss racer towards the end. And then on one of the last jumps, the American decided to get fancy by grabbing her board with her hand and doing a cross-up. She crashed! The Swiss racer zoomed by the American hot dogger, and the American limped in to take silver. The best part was after a few minutes, she tried to act like she was celebrating. Yippee! I won silver! Sorry, babe, that dog ain't gonna hunt. Then again, in the culture where mall chicks call each other "dude," Lindsey Jacobellis will be a hero. Besides, the American team needs more silver and bronze to balance the medal count.

 

 

I love watching those guys soar. This event would move up a couple notches if more North Americans were involved or if we had more "agony of defeat" moments.

 

 

That's right, men's figure skating. The gold medal winner got a lot of attention, but he's boring. He makes all those triple axels and flips look way too easy. He's probably even a heterosexual. Since he's Russian, that's fine, but if you're going to be a male figure skater, you should totally queen it up. The American skater, Johnny Weir, is everything a figure skater should be. He's quite possibly the gayest man on the planet. When the bus that was to take him to the ice rink was late, he became so flustered that when it was time to "compete," he skated around as if he were looking for a lost doily. But the skater who offers the most unintentional comedy value has to be the Japanese guy. He acts exactly like the flamboyant dancer in Shall We Dansu, right down to the long black hair and faux angry gestures. Imagine crossing Michael Jackson in "Billie Jean" and Elizabeth Berkley in Showgirls, and you get the picture.

 

Today's weight: 184 lbs (-4 lbs)

After having competed in both the Summer and Winter Olympics, I don't want to be one of those guys who runs around going, "Hey, look at me, I won this medal or that medal." No. Instead of focusing on my dramatic successes, of which there are many, I thought I'd travel on that dusty road of humility and reveal my darkest Olympian nightmares.

 

 

U.S. against the Netherlands, Nagano games, elimination round, score tied at 7. The situation was simple. We had just blanked an end to get the last stone toss, and we were going for the steal in the eighth end. The Dutch team had a counter on the button, and we needed an in-curl chip & lie for the win. Carter delivered the hammer with a dead handle, so Burke and I swept like enchafed fiends to curl the rock. One of the Dutch players, Oskar, made a derogatory comment about a personal friend of mine. I was distracted for only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. I burned a stone. The Dutch players celebrated, and we Americans collapsed to the ice in defeat. I shook hands with Oskar, but let's just say we didn't do any broomstacking afterwards.

 

 

Seoul games. I was the favorite in the 300-metre Individual Medley, or 300 I.M. for short. The first two legs went smoothly. I was in third place after the breaststroke and I moved into second place after the elementary backstroke. When I launched into my sidestroke, I felt like I was shot out of a cannon. I was moving so fast, in fact, that the wall arrived much sooner than I expected. I struck my head, and remembered no more. The next thing I knew, I was strapped to a table in the locker room. People have told me that I was disqualified for reasons I don't want to go into, but I refuse to watch the video replays of those strange events.

 

It's easy to symphathize with my agony, but just think how my coach felt. One minute, his champion swimmer was well on his way to a gold medal swim, and the next minute, his prized star was allegedly dunking a Latvian swimmer in the next lane. It was nearly too much to bear.

 

 

When it comes to competition, I'm old school. Extra testosterone puts me on edge, gives me fire, so I allow myself only two orgasms a day leading up to competition. During the Games, let's just say that restraint is difficult, and leave it at that. Women -- famous women -- throw themselves at us athletes in general, and at me in particular. You try telling someone like Jessica Biel that you can't take a Jell-o bath because you need a good night of sleep. And some countries, especially the former Soviet bloc countries, will do anything they can to gain an edge, sending wave after wave of attractive women named Svetlana or Katiana at their rivals. Most of the time, I have resisted temptation, but I have to admit that on more than one occasion, I have competed on wobbly legs.

 

 

I met with the Olympic board to go over a few proposals that would make the games more exciting. For the most part, I wanted to liven up some of the quirkier events by combining them with other, less popular events. For example, people are only vaguely interested in the biathlon, which consists of cross-country skiers stopping periodically to shoot a rifle at a target. And ice dancing bores most people. I think you see where I'm going here. Why not have the biathletes shoot at ice dancers? Because it makes too much sense, that's why. For the Summer Olympics, couldn't we combine archery with rhythm gymnastics? Sadly, my opponents out-foxed me politically, changing the focus from public interest to personal safety. I suggested using paint pellets for rifles and suction cups for arrows to ensure safety, but by then it was too late.

 

 

I met again with the Olympic board to make it illegal for competitors (1) to listen to iPods while competing, and (2) to dance on camera while preparing for an event. I claimed that dancing and gesturing to hip-hop music violates the spirit of the Games and looks ridiculous, because some XGames kid is dancing to music that we can't hear. The board members offered jibber-jabber about youth and corporate interest, and dismissed me with the stroke of the gavel.

Some of you have actually taken the time and effort to scold me for writing about sports. While I will continue writing about sports, I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to make certain that your wishes are carefully and thoroughly evaluated.

 

 

One of the ongoing stories this week is that Pittsburgh is a better football town than Seattle. True. But is this a bad thing? I don't think so. Of course, that's because I look at football as a guilty pleasure. Nowadays, we call a football player "brilliant" if he graduated with a 3.2 GPA in Sociology and speaks in full sentences. We praise a football player because he tries hard and get this -- he actually cares about the game. We call a football player a great guy because he's not involved in drug deals and gang rapes. All the stories about the football players' off-field behavior has set a low bar. One guy, Leonard Little, killed a woman while drunk driving -- and then he got arrested for drunk driving again! But watch him play. He plays hard. He cares about the game.

 

I have a theory that back in the day, people respected athletes because their accomplishments were symbolic of their noble character. Boxers and quarterbacks and thoroughbreds were brave and strong and competitive, traits that lead to success in any walk of life. After a century of sports hero worship, the attitude evolved in such a way that athletic feats became more valued than the noble attributes they were supposed to symbolize. Understand, I have no basis for this theory; I would feel a lot better about it if I had stolen the idea from someone else.

 

But what am I talking about? Oh, yeah. Seattle. Drizzle, coffee, grunge. Remember the breakthrough Nirvana video with the tattooed cheerleaders? "Smells Like Teen Spirit"? Those guys were mocking the quarterback/cheerleader/prom queen stuff. I'm telling you, people in Seattle have a different perspective. It's good that we care more about Death Cab and pre-schools and salmon than football.

 

 

Wendy and Minette are going to make delicious food -- chicken wings, homemade chili, brownies. Yum. By the way, what's the difference between a chicken wing and a buffalo wing?

 

 

But that doesn't mean it won't be a blowout. In most Super Bowl games, one team gets the momentum in the first half and goes on to win. But which team? Think about the Pittsburgh-Denver game. In the first quarter, the Steelers quarterback, Ben, got happy feet on 3rd down and lobbed a terrible pass out to the flat. The Broncos defensive back, who just the week before ran back a similar pass 100 yards, somehow let the ball go through his hands. And it bounced off his chest and dropped into the arms of the Steelers receiver! Not only did the Broncos fail to score an easy touchdown, they let the Steelers get a first down. Pittsburgh went on to score, and the rout was on. Instead of playing with a lead, the Broncos had to abandon their running game -- the best in football -- and rely on Jake Plummer's erratic passing abilities to bring them back.

 

Who knows which way the ball will bounce in this game? I think The Onion said it best:

 

The boys wake up from their naps at 3:30, right when the game starts. Minette doesn't know what 2nd and 8 means, even after two different people explained it to her. Wendy will ask questions about announcers' comments:

 

Wendy: Why are they talking about the quarterback when all he did was give the ball to someone else?

 

Me: Because, um . . .  No! Don't call timeout on 2nd and 1. What now?

 

 

Sunday night, full belly, no football, no buzz, no Sopranos.

Whenever I write about sports, I want to apologize. I get the feeling that about 10% of my readers are interested in sports, and about half of those are interested in what I have to say about sports.* Too bad.

 

 

After four closely played, exciting games last week, including the most thrilling roller coaster finish I've ever seen in a pro football game, it's statistically impossible for there to be two close games this week. The more important the game, the more likely it is that one team will fall apart when it gets behind early. There's an emotional letdown, players start pressing, coaches start slamming the panic button with two open hands, and the other team plays more confidently and takes advantage of predictable mistakes. This week, I think the Seahawks-Panthers game will end in a blowout.

 

 

The Steelers are playing hard and loose. They're not the favorites, so they're probably not going to choke away the game again in the conference championship. Their quarterback, Ben, is playing better than any other quarterback. The Steelers are a tough team that lost a bunch of games in the middle of the season because Ben was injured and they were uncharacteristically losing the trench battles. On the other side, the Broncos just beat the NFL's best big-game team, and they're playing at home, where they haven't lost this year. Earlier in the week, I would have said that I had no idea who would win this game. It was a coin toss. But I watched "Inside the NFL" on HBO last night, and I was impressed by how composed the Broncos appeared  in the locker room after beating the Patriots. The Denver guys really seemed to believe that they were better than the Patriots. That image was the tipping point for me. As of today, I firmly believe that the Broncos have a 53% chance to win this game.

 

 

Steve Smith is the best and most exciting receiver in football this year, but Seattle isn't going to leave him in single coverage like the Bears and Giants did, especially when the Panthers have lost their top two running backs to injury. Hasselback is playing confidently. Then again, so is Delhomme (French for "of the ham hock"). I say this game will be decided by the second quarter, one way or the other.

 

 

Back in the 1970s, I used to hate the Steelers almost as much as I hated the Cowboys, but then something odd happened. A few years ago, I actually started to like the Steelers. I thought it was cute that an otherwise great team was trying to win year after year with Kordell Stewart playing at quarterback. Now that's all changed. After last week's victory against my beloved Colts, Pittsburgh fans just won't shut up. It's bad enough to hear people whine about bad officiating, but when they carry on like that after THEY WON THE GAME, something's wrong. I'm not even talking about the fact that someone vandalized a referee's car and home after a victory. I'm talking about all the paranoid Pittsburgh fans who think league officials don't want to see them play in the Super Bowl. Now I hate the Steelers again -- just like old times.

 

 

Sorry, this 12th man thing is nonsense. Cleveland fans are rabid. Pittsburgh fans are rabid. Seattle fans are interested in the outcome of Sunday's game. Many of them will even snuggle up and watch the whole game.

I remember watching one of the pre-game shows earlier this year, and one of the prognosticators was claiming that the Bengals would defeat the Colts because the Bengals' talented rookie middle linebacker doesn't know what he's doing and is therefore likely to confuse Manning by being where he isn't supposed to be. The Colts offense destroyed the Bengals defense in that game, but I love the idea of a linebacker running willy nilly all over the field being the reason a guy thinks that team will win -- a guy who makes his living discussing football no less. In that same spirit of arrant enthusiasm, here are my predictions for the third-most exciting sports weekend in America.

 

 

It seems to happen that way every year. I think the Seahawks and Colts are going to win handily this week -- and not because I moved from Indiana to Washington six months ago. I think the Seahawks are going to blow out the Redskins because that's when I have my weekend break. Seahawks 41, Redskins 13.

 

I think the Colts are going to blow out the Steelers for better reasons. Pittsburgh has looked toothless this year against the best teams. When these two teams played earlier, the Colts pushed around the Steelers at the line of scrimmage. That was odd. This week, one of the Steelers basically dared the Colts to stop the trickery and play like real men, but this year's Steelers is going to get busted up even if the Colts stop doing mean things like calling audibles. Pittsburgh just doesn't have enough on defense to rattle Manning, which has to happen for the Colts to lose. Then again, maybe several Steelers were banged up earlier in the year, and now they're healthy. Plus, they're the underdogs, so their quarterback (whose name I'd rather refer to parenthetically than spell out) might actually have a good playoff game. And maybe the Steelers' opposing quarterback will blow out his knee on the second play from scrimmage, and Pittsburgh will win another cheap one. I doubt it. Colts 38, Steelers 18.

 

 

Before the game even starts.

 

 

Earlier in the year, the Patriots didn't look like the team that won three out of the last four Super Bowls, but now they do. The loss of Harrison hurts them on defense, but their defensive secondary looks good enough to stop teams now. The Broncos have a strong defense, and no one has a better running game, and Jake Plummer is playing well. I still think the Patriots will win. Plus, I really want to see the Patriots play the Colts in Indianapolis. That's a seven-layer dip game, the kind that Wendy and Minette might even watch. They just have to be in a different room if the Colts start losing. Patriots 16, Broncos 12.

 

 

I always stay up too late on weekends, forgetting that Luke and Max don't respect the Don't-bounce-on-Daddy's-head-at-5:30am rule, even on weekends. That always causes me to fall asleep, which leads to a conversation like this:

 

Wendy: How was the game?

 

Me: The game? Oh, good. One of the teams won. I think.

 

 

People are saying this is going to be a low-scoring game because both defenses are so good. I think both defenses are so good and both offenses are so bad that there will be a lot of turnovers and desperate passing and defensive scoring. Bears 34, Panthers 22.

I'm reading Bill Simmons' new book about the Boston Red Sox. He grew up in Boston and lived there his whole life until recently moving to L.A. In the first chapter of his book, he has the gall to lay out rules on rooting for teams. For him, it's simple: root for your local team, and never jump on bandwagons. But what about nomadic guys like me? My father was in the Air Force, so I never lived in the same town for more than four years until I was an adult. In the last ten years, I've lived in Utah, Indiana, and Washington. How does a vagabond pick which pro teams to root for?

 

 

When I was watching a movie as a little kid, melting celluloid flashed on the suddenly white screen, and the audience groaned. (Anyone under 30 probably has no idea what I'm talking about -- I haven't seen film reels break or melt in a long time.) While the technician worked on splicing the movie, he played a short reel of the 1971 World Series between the Orioles and the Pirates. For some odd reason, Brooks Robinson became my sports hero then and there. I was crushed to discover that the Orioles lost in game 7 to the evil Pirates. For the next twenty years or so, I flipped to the Sports page to check the Orioles' box scores. Unfortunately, Brooks Robinson was near the end of his career back then, and I discovered much later that he had a drinking problem, so in the early 70s, the box score usually looked something like this:

 

BRobnson 3b   4 0 1 0

 

At least he got a hit. Every once in awhile, his hands would stop shaking and he would have a great game:

 

BRobnson 3b   5 2 3 3

 

On such days, I'd meet my friends in Hank Dorsey's backyard pool and brag about the fact that Brooks Robinson went 3 for 5 with a double and a homer and three RBI. "Can you beat that?" I would say, hands clasped behind my head. On those rare occasions when the Orioles were on the Saturday game of the week, the anticipation was almost too much for me. I rooted for the Orioles until 1994. That's when the strike canceled the World Series. Now, I can't name a single player who plays for Baltimore.

 

 

It makes sense for people who live in places like New Mexico or Nebraska to start developing allegiances to playoff teams. When I was moving all over the country, my favorite teams were the ones that played in big games against the Yankees or Cowboys or Lakers.

 

 

If you move around a lot, this is harder than you think. After taking up with the Jazz, I can't bring myself to root for the Sonics, even though I live in Seattle. I started liking the Mariners, though, because of Ichiro. After having watched Ichiro in rightfield, I'm convinced he suffers from Tourette's syndrome.

 

 

I went to college at BYU when Danny Ainge, Jim McMahon, and Steve Young were playing. When they went on to the pros, they represented me. All three of those guys were compelling college athletes -- especially Ainge, who was college basketball's version of John McEnroe, complete with whiny temper tantrums and jaw-dropping flashes of brilliance. As soon as Ainge started playing for the Celtics, they became my favorite team. I also thought it was very cool that in a league where black athletes were clearly dominating, the Celtics won championships with three white starters. (Yes, all else being equal, I root for white basketball players and white sprinters. Part of it is the underdog thing, and part of it probably has something to do with residual racism that a couple of liberal arts degrees couldn't wipe away.)

 

Steve Young was much different from Ainge. At the end of a close game, if Ainge got fouled, you knew he'd knock down both free throws and then sucker punch someone running down the court. But Young had a problem with nerves, which made me root even harder for him. By the way, Peyton Manning reminds me a lot of Steve Young. They're brilliant during the regular season and in playoff games against relatively weak teams. But Young and Manning get happy feet and try to do too much against pressing defenses in big games. People keep saying the Colts are the clear favorites to win the Super Bowl this year, but I don't see it that way. Not with Manning. I just hope the Colts get to play the Patriots.

 

 

Here's something interesting. I played pro football for the Cincinnati Bengals in 1988. You can look it up. I was the strong safety. Even though I weighed 155 pounds at the time, I loved to hit people. I'd get a big running start and just slam into some guy. Doof! For the most part, I tried to hit players from the other team, and I'd try to hit them before the whistle, but deep down, I didn't really care. If I wasn't getting enough good hits, sometimes I'd cream a referee or go into the stands and start whacking fans with my padded forearms. Until the Bengals cut me, I rooted for them.

1. Fatty nearly killed a man
 
A bunch of us used to play tackle football on Saturday mornings. We didn't have pads, so unless there was a lot of snow on the ground, we eased off when tackling. Except for Fatty. He was like the Tasmanian devil from the Bugs Bunny cartoons, always running and yelling and hitting people. I would say that you had to keep your head on a swivel even when you were in the huddle because Fatty would whack you at any time, but that's stretching the truth. Still, he didn't play sports growing up, so he had no feel for the subtleties of the game. When you passed the ball to him, every once in awhile he caught it, but most of the time it bounced off his elbow or head. And then he hit someone.

So one cold Saturday morning, we're playing with the new guy, Brad. I didn't like Brad. He was married to a sickly woman who was bedridden with acute arthritis, and he fell in love with a woman I was dating. Brad and my ex-girlfriend were both Mormons, so Brad would frequently sit in her cubicle and try to horn in on her by convincing her to break up with me because I was "inactive." Anyway, Dug was playing quarterback, and Fatty was defending horndog Brad. Brad put a fake on Fatty. Since Fatty wasn't accustomed to such trickery, he ran to the spot where Brad acted like he was going, and Brad ran in the opposite direction downfield. I hit Dug as he was throwing, so the ball was underthrown. Brad was slowly backpedaling, waiting for the ball to arrive, while Fatty charged after him. Just when Brad caught the ball, Fatty hit Brad at full speed and slammed him to the frozen ground. Dug and I heard Brad's head smack the ground from 30 yards away. Crack. Brad mumbled a couple of words, and then went into convulsions, foaming at the mouth. Fatty had hit Brad, so he was the one who had to call 911. To his credit, Fatty didn't try to convince Dug to do Rock-Paper-Scissors. The ambulance came and took Brad to the hospital. Fortunately, the hospital had a big field next to it, so we were able to resume our game.

2. Playing football in Nebraska
 
When my father went to sign me up for a football league, he was late for registration. The officials told him that they had enough players but not enough coaches, so my Dad agreed to coach the last team of stragglers. We were awful at first, small and slow, but we made up for our lack of talent by learning to play our positions. My Dad ended up being an excellent coach, and we basically used teamwork and trickery to go undefeated two years in a row. Whenever I smell dewy grass in autumn, I remember waiting for those Nebraska football games to start, and I get butterflies in my stomach.

3. Softball

Softball is an awkward sport. Some guys take it very seriously, and they look kind of silly. It is, after all, slow-pitch softball. The pitcher is lobbing the ball to you, so it's easy to hit, and many of the players are spiking their Cokes with rum and getting noticeably wobbly in the late innings. Then again, there were two umpires, fan-filled bleachers, and game scorekeepers, so it was tempting to get overly competitive, especially for those of us who weren't star jocks in high school. In one game, our shortstop was throwing to first to complete a double-play. The runner didn't duck, so the ball bounced off his forehead. The rule of thumb is that the runner needs to get out of the way if he's not close enough to slide, but the guys on the other team must not have known about this rule, because they were shouting threats at our 5'4" Italian-American shortshop. Rick shrugged his shoulders: if they don't know about the rule, they're gonna get beaned. In a later inning, there was another double-play ball, and this time the runner slid into Rick with his spikes. The guy stood up, and Ricky punched him in the face. We didn't know whether to laugh or break up the fight.

4. Playing soccer against the college team

I never played soccer (or football for you non-Amurrcan readers) until I lived in Peru. Every Monday, we used to play soccer for at least three hours. When I returned home, I took a soccer class in college that was taught by the assistant coach of the BYU soccer team. Our instructor thought we were pretty good, and he bragged about us to the head coach. Apparently, they made a bet, and set up a game for our class to play the BYU junior varsity team. I had never played soccer with 22 men on the field and a referee and uniforms, so it was a new experience for me. The JV team scored three early goals, and it looked like it was going to be a rout. But we shored up our defense and figured out a way to get our best striker the ball. We managed to tie it up at 4. In extra time, the JV's goalie missed an easy cross, and the ball landed right at my foot for an easy tap-in. We won 5-4, and we got to see the head coach hand a ten dollar bill to the assistant coach.

5. E6 E6 E6

When I was 12 or 13 years old, our team was in the semi-finals. We were ahead 2-1 in the bottom of the last inning. Family and friends sat in the stands. All we needed was three outs and we'd be playing in the championship game. A guy hit a ground ball to my right. I went to backhand it, but couldn't make the play. E6, man on first. The next batter hit a ground ball right to me for a potential double-play. I booted it. E6, men on first and second. Our pitcher glared at me and then struck out the next two batters. Then he walked a guy and went to full count on one of their weakest hitters. Come on, baby, just one more strike. My heart was pounding. The runners took off as the pitcher threw. Crack. The batter hit a hard liner to my left. I caught it cleanly on a short hop, regained my balance, and ... choked. I didn't want to overthrow the ball, so I short-armed it, bouncing it in front of the first baseman. E6, game over, season over. G-o-a-t.

I would apologize for writing a quick, sloppy entry -- my family's in town and I'm avoiding the office -- but "dug" would bust my chops for not adhering to Edward Abbey's motto, "Never apologize, never explain." So I'm not apologizing.

 

 

If USC plays, I will always watch. The cutaway shot of the cheerleaders before commercial break is television's answer to Viagra. It's the sweaters.

 

 

During the same weekend, Washington plays Washington State, Ohio State battles Michigan, Army goes to war against Navy, Harvard aims to dispirit Yale, and the Big One: BYU hooks horns with Utah. OK, neither Cougars or Utes have horns, but... but nothing.

 

 

I don't even know if he's a good announcer. Just knowing that the guy who announces big college football games in 2005 is the same guy who announced Nebraska-Oklahoma when I was a little kid pops me into a time capsule.

 

 

When I was a teenager, people couldn't watch sports 24 hours a day, so when any sports-related event came on -- Saturday afternoon baseball, Friday night boxing Sunday morning bowling -- I watched it. Back then, I used to tune in to the Notre Dame highlight show on Sunday morning with coach Ara Parsegian. I rooted against Notre Dame, but in a good way -- like the way I rooted against the Steelers during the 70s or the Yankees in baseball. I prefer rooting against history-rich teams I despise much more than rooting against soul-less teams like the Miami Hurricanes or the Toronto Blue Jays or the Detroit Pistons.

 

 

This used to be a bigger deal a few years ago, before all the BCS nonsense. Back in the good old days, the games on New Year's Day included the teams going for the national championship. Nowadays, the biggest games are played a few days after New year's Day, which makes the hangover games not as interesting. But I still leave them on, especially if USC is playing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For some reason, I have a difficult time writing about sports. Maybe it's because I feel like sports is a guilty pleasure, so I can't throw myself into it like I do when I'm discussing my favorite television shows. But what better place to work on my weaknesses than a blog? Other than having to support my bloated research staff, I have no other costs and no obligation to you, the reader. So here it goes: 

 

 

Some people may think -- erroneously, I might add -- that each year, the top teams in any sport are better than the top teams from the previous years. But that's not how it works, not even in individual sports. Instead, the quality ebbs and flows in a general upwards direction, like a good long-term stock. In basketball, those great Laker and Celtic teams in the mid-80s were far better than the teams that won championships in the late 80s and early 90s, including some of the championship teams with Jordan. In some years, like pretty much any year that Houston or San Antonio won a championship, the teams won in down periods. The 1985 Lakers or the 1993 Bulls would have torn apart any of those teams.

 

Which brings us to the 1993 Cowboys. I think the NFL reached a peak in the mid-90s, before the salary cap restrictions increased parity and player movement. The Buffalo Bills, 49ers, and Cowboys in particular were great teams that would have thrashed any team that won a super bowl a few years later, after expansion and the salary cap. On the elite teams, the players played together longer, the benches were deeper, and the competition was far greater, especially in the NFC. Just compare the 1995 Cowboys to the 1993 Cowboys. Both teams won it all, but that 1995 team was shaky. If any of you are Cowboy fans, know this: I hate your team, I hate you, and I want your favorite goat to die so that you'll be lonely at night.

 

 

My favorite sports team of all time. Only a nervous nelly at quarterback keeps this from being the greatest team ever.

 

 

The quality of NFL teams had another peak in the mid-80s, and this Bears team just rolled over everyone, including the 49ers, Cowboys, and Redskins. The offense was relatively weak, but that defense was unstoppable.

 

 

Great coach, clutch quarterback, fantastic defense. They crushed a lot of great teams.

 

 

Balanced team filled with winners. Chuck Noll is by far the weakest coach of any that have won four titles.

 

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He played 20 years for the Bruins and never won. Then he jumped ship to Colorado and won. He played well, and you could argue that Colorado probably wouldn't have won without him, but I don't care. When you spend 20 years with one team, you should either stick with your team, or go play for a loser with money to burn. Bourque is like a guy can't get his wife pregnant for 20 years, so he divorces her because he wants kids and knocks up a younger woman. I respect the guy who stays with his wife and gets a dog or a goldfish or a foreign kid.

 

 

Boston was ahead of Cardinals 3 games to none, and they were ahead of the Cardinals by 3 runs in the ninth inning. Thousands of Red Sox fans still thought they were going to lose. As I was watching the end of the game, I logged in to a Red Sox chat room. Here's what it looked like:

 

SoxRock32: dude, we're going to lose. foulke is going to blow it.

Yazlover: think positive, dude. we can still win this thing. i hope ;)

Pestof32: are there any young girls looking for a studman?

SoxRock32: what about the curse?

Dflag: THIS IS THE BOSTON RED SOX WERE TALKING ABOUT. WORLD CHAMPTIONS BABY!!!

 

Can you imagine what the Sox fans would have been saying if the dazed Cards had managed to score just a single run near the end of the last game? The fans' negativity would have affected the players all the way out in St. Louis. I've done scientific studies on vibes, and without going into boring details, the negative vibes would have caused the Red Sox players to fold under the pressure. They would have started throwing wild pitches and popping up and letting grounders roll between their legs. If the Cards had just scored a single run in the 8th or 9th inning of that game, they would have been World Champions. It's a mathematical certainty. That kind of defeatism should never be rewarded with a championship. And now, as Boston is having another one of those seasons in which they have enough to make the playoffs, but not enough to win, people are calling them the defending champs. That's wrong.