The Cowardly Dolphins

[firsty]

She climbed into bed smelling like a broken bottle of Rumpleminze. After teasing me with a new bag of goodies before hiding it in the dresser, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and squeezed my pinkie ring. We talked for a while about religion.

"God isnt dead," we came to realize. I've been listening to Tom Waits' new album repeatedly since Christmas morning. "God is in therapy," I said. "He's made some horrible mistakes, trying to follow his heart, but getting in bed with the wrong people." Instant gratification for God takes centuries for onlookers to endure.

"I think He needs to switch His medication," I said. "He's lost, confused, angry about His upbringing and still holding a grudge against men, and not men as 'humanity,' but simply the gender."

We've done a great job of fucking things up for the big guy. It's not all our fault. It's not like we started from scratch, from the very beginning we've had to deal with volcanoes and monsters with sharp teeth, real and imagined.

But that is no excuse for letting the Giants into the playoffs, or continuing to allow Marty Schottenheimer to be a leader of men. Lets not discuss how a Navy officer is any more qualified to lead ground forces in the disaster that is America's 2007 update of Iraq, intended to repair security flaws and cut down on hacks, than Harriet Miers was to make decisions involving water-bound babies or eminent domain. I'm beginning, after all, to believe the fools who believe in George W. Bush because, as they like to say, "at least he's a man of convictions." He makes decisions and he sticks with them. The more I get into God's head, the more I realize that His biggest mistake was, in providing us the everyday common list of multiple choice answers for us to live by, including "None of the above" among the possible selections.

The greatest failure of men and women alike is the fear to make a decision.

The next great failure is our inexplicable inability to own up to the decisions we do eventually make.

I dont even know why head coaches or anyone else for that matter holds news conferences anymore. Lets not talk about John McCain's obvious hypocrisy in describing the Iraq invasion in 2003 compared to his reinvention of his 2003 belief of the Iraq invasion this week. Or about Dick Cheney's continuing whirlwind of lies caught on tape like your ugly neighbor's hot daughter on Girls Gone Wild.

After all, those things are obvious. Only the most dimwitted and frightened people are able to convince themselves that what they hear today from McCain and Cheney and Bush and Rice and the whole slimy lot of them is for real.

But it was only a few days before I listened, for the first time, to Tom Waits' "Road to Peace," perhaps his first overtly political song in his career, that Nick Saban angrily and stubbornly, and with the kind of great disdain usually monopolized by the likes of Bush and Cheney, pretended to want nothing to do with the state of Alabama or its football program. And two days ago, he took the job, hours after wrapping up another awful season with the Miami Dolphins. His behavior turned even Wayne Huizenga into a man needing sympathy. Poor rich Wayne was brought to his knees by the dead loyalty of his former coach, and he had to beg his room of reporters for advice on what to do next.

Al David would never do that. Al Davis will hire Billy Martin to coach the Raiders before he asks the press for advice. With George Steinbrenner sticking with one manager for a decade, I expect to see big poor Art Shell kicking dirt at the replay officials in two years. Al used to be able to make decisions, but that was when he had a living, breathing circle of friends and companions. Now, he's quivering like Wayne Huizenga, both men lost and confused, unable to trust themselves anymore. Unable to manage, unable to lead, unable to win.

Nick Saban knew how to win when he was coaching kids. But two years ago he made a decision and signed a contract he couldnt live up to. So he went in search of a fix. He got the fix, but he couldnt admit it in public, too ashamed for words. His father, Lou, must be ashamed of poor rich Nick. Lou knew how to be a leader of men. In his old age, he wisely decided to coach kids, to teach and mold. But Nick's decision to try the NFL was simply wrong and he didnt have the courage to finish his commitment or to even admit his indecision and then his new decision.

God wasnt afraid of making decisions. He chose who He chose and He's obviously sticking with it. And it's been sheer disaster ever since. It's getting to God, I can tell. It's going to be almost 70 degrees tomorrow in parts of the northeast United States of America. Struggling with the
after-effects of His grand commitments, God is taking it out on the polar bears, but at least He's not reneging on the choices He made.

So lets not talk about war. Lets focus on sports, where at least our liars only lose games.

[stilltrucking]

So lets not talk about war. Lets focus on sports, where at least our liars only lose games.

I watched more football last week than I have in the past forty eight years.

Boise State/Nebraska
I can't tell you why I loathe Nebraska
I am still high from the win

Jesse Helms was a sports writer before he became a senator. I wonder if he could hold a candle to you?

Brilliant piece of writing

I am impressed
What's next
Politics
just goofing cause I liked it so much
it was a wild ride of a read
you got style firsty

[Doreen Peri]

To me, TV sports announcers sound exactly the same as TV political analysts. Sometimes I can't tell sports & politics apart. Isn't politics a sport? Who's on first?, er firsty?

Thanks for your writing. Good stuff. I'm so glad you started this spot.

[stilltrucking]

Maybe my praise to extravagant for a sports column
but what was it really about
Sean shifted gears so many times
Was I reading about Iraq or Football?
Both at once. nice analogies I thought
Sport metaphors get stale so quick
this was fresh.

He just knocked my socks off.

my writing just drones on compared to that piece.

yeah
glad you are here my white brother

[firsty]

hey wow thanks! glad to hear y'all liked it. i'm actually mad at myself because of some last second editing that i did, which i shouldnt have done, but i think it still is ok, and grateful for the comments so soon. i'm just faking it. or something built up and i'll be dry for a year.

damn, that boise st game blew me away. we were at a club in town this fancy place with trendy friends and i still got to see the ending. i'm disappointed that notre dame didnt show up, and my teams this weekend will likely lose (the few that are left). i'm still putting all my eggs in the sabres' basket.

we need more sports in literature. i'm tired of the frat boy image of america's sports fan. back in the day if it wasnt the baseball journalists it was mailer or joyce oates or yale geek plimpton literally fighting it out. i shall not apologize no fucking longer for being a sports fan!

[mtmynd]

Firsty -

i shall not apologize no fucking longer for being a sports fan!

Never apologize for loving anything.

Damn fine writing, firsty. Looking forward to more.

[stilltrucking]

"God isnt dead," we came to realize. I've been listening to Tom Waits' new album repeatedly since Christmas morning. "God is in therapy," I said. "He's made some horrible mistakes, trying to follow his heart, but getting in bed with the wrong people." Instant gratification for God takes centuries for onlookers to endure.

"I think He needs to switch His medication," I said. "He's lost, confused, angry about His upbringing and still holding a grudge against men, and not men as 'humanity,' but simply the gender."

We've done a great job of fucking things up for the big guy. It's not all our fault. It's not like we started from scratch, from the very beginning we've had to deal with volcanoes and monsters with sharp teeth, real and imagined.

Then this next sentence floored me

But that is no excuse for letting the Giants into the playoffs, or continuing to allow Marty Schottenheimer to be a leader of men.

Is that what someone who knew something about writting would call meta fiction.

[firsty]

i stole "leader of men" from al pacino in "glengarry glen ross."

[stilltrucking]

It was just how you went from the subject of god to the giants. You thought about that. It was a slick trick. Spun me around. I still ain't saying what I mean. I liked it a lot. I just can't explain why.

I am so nutz. I resent the fact that Shula is alive and Unitas is dead. Go figure? I wish I had a picture of Johnny U above my bead. When you grow up with a dad like mine you look for father figures. Johnny U my hero man.

I should have been gay. I think I would have been happier.

Reading bits and pieces of Catcher In THe Rye Again and thinking about Levi Asher's Summer of the Mets.

All of a sudden I don't like either novel.

just morning ramble
good to see you back
I thought you were pissed
because of my "oh my white brother crack"
but that is just probably my madness
I think everything is my fault.

[Totenkopf]

Firsty can scribble a bit, but I take issue with anyone who blesses the bizarre spectacle of American pro-sports. Besides, sports does figure prominently in contemporary literature: if anything, the macho swagger of the Sportswriter---think HS Thompson, or Mailer--has become sort of a de facto literary style. The Sports section of the American daily newspaper generally has nearly as much force as the business section or SUV ads.

I wager there are others who view a Kobe Bryant --or possibly worse, his cowboy-capitalist boss Jerry Buss---as a type of mobster, not too far removed from Lucky Luciano or Bugsy Siegel types: and plenty of writers have pointed out the ties of pro-sports to organized crime--perhaps no pointer more effective than Ring Lardner--a bit tres sauvvage, but amusing. And many of the big name schports heroes--like Joe Dimaggio---had no problem cozying up to mobsters.

The Laker fast break may be a thing of beauty; but then so is a Karpov fianchetto, or a Ducati Monster, or a Debussy prelude--or Eliot Ness putting away some of the scum of the Five Points gang.

[firsty]

hm. your name dropping is suspicious. dont worry, we dont judge around here. you may be new but i take it for granted that you're intelligent, even if a bit overloaded.

i did mention the old school lit crowd. mailer and hst are no longer players in contemporary literature. today's sports journalism is mostly made up of fantasy football geeks. old school for today are the old baseball rotary geeks.

there is pleasure to be found in many parts of life, all of which deserve recognition in whatever art form whatever fan decides to whatever engage whatever whatever whatever.

your scribbling comment makes you seem like capote criticizing kerouac, which i'll take as a compliment of the highest order. and if you believe my interests to be something of a bizarre spectacle, i can only hear that as further marching orders within the sports world.

we need more of the macho swagger back. who are our lit contemporaries? black-rimmed geeks like foer? snarky fags like augusten burroughs? pussy-whipped hangers-on like levi asher? ha HA! o dear, wanna go? i'll whoop yer ass.

[Totenkopf]

I'm opposed to Capote-like decadence in principle---tho' In Cold Blood probably as powerful as anything Ti Trieste Jean scrawled--and not such a fan of Burroughs (or beat wannabes such as Asher), yet machismo is not such a viable alternative. Re-reading Gravity's Rainbow: now there's a f-n scribbler of a major sort. And Capn Tom avoids the chi chi nihilism AND the macho pose--"salivate like a pavlov dawg" only goes so far. TP also knows his integrals, his rocket science, as well as his WWII history, and most likely did some time with Hawkthorne and Hellville. I mean if you wanna salivate, cool, but that it's tough don't mean it's good, or Mickey Spillane would be taught instead of Melville, or Mingus would be preferable to say Satie. I doubt Satie was much for fisticuffs but according to my aesthetic his work quite superior to loud thug noize, however PC. (that may be a bit name-droppy for indie cats, but the Fight Club set of writers hardly includes all syntactical possibilities). Anyhoo, gonzo bores me after a few pages: Pynchon might frustrate or obfuscate, but rarely bores.

And one other thing: Coach generally falls in the Oppressor category, regardless of his race, creed or political affiliation--and most athletes are coaches-to-be. Personally, I think the entire ProSchports racket should be RICO'ed, ASAP: empty stadiums would be cool things.