The Midget and Me: Intro to the War Room

I started betting on sports about two months ago, and I’d be lying if I said my hindquarters haven’t been aflame ever since. The beatings started on January 2nd, when I decided to feed the little homer that dwells in my soul by betting on the Buckeyes in the Gator Bowl (next time I bet on tOSU to win in a bowl named after THE VERY TEAM THEY’RE FACING, someone please trip me down some stairs.) We all have that short-sighted midget inside us. The guy that never takes off his jersey, always telling us that our team is better than they are and that crazier things have happened. News-flash, Gary Coleman: the Buckeyes are always worse than we think they are. It’s science.

Since then, I’ve been bludgeoned to my core. I’ve taken the most unforeseeable of losses, the kind that make want to play Frogger during rush hour. However, I’ve also logged some knowledge that I think could be helpful for all of you out there wanting to be Rainman.

First, never bet on your own team. Especially Ohio State. By now, I ‘m convinced that not only will the perennially-underachieving Buckeyes lose me cash, they’ll also blow the game in the most irritating and disappointing way possible, while simultaneously infecting me with the SARS virus. I wish I were exaggerating.

Second, don’t think for a second you can mess with Vegas. For every two hours you spend typing formulas into your secret spreadsheet at work, Vegas has eighteen dudes who look like Urkel doing the same thing for twice as long. Vegas is like that six-foot 5th grader, dunking on an eight foot hoop and sending your jump hook back from whence it came. You can’t stop Vegas. You can only hope to contain him.

Third, Rome wasn't built in one day. It’s gonna’ take some work to come back from that $200 hole you dug when you got drunk and decided to watch Bassmasters. It’s gonna’ take a few days to get back to where you want to be. Maybe not five, not six, not seven...but at least a few. But don’t go out like a punk either. At the end of the day, you gotta’ go out there and you gotta’ play, even if you’re probably gonna’ wake up tomorrow with the same personal problems you had today. But hey, Hollywood, no one ever said it was gonna’ be easy.

(Wait, none of that made sense? You were too lazy to click on the link, weren’t you? Busted.)

And finally, there are a few things you never want to touch, no matter how tasty they may seem. Things like rivalry games. Favorites on the road. Opponents of Tim Tebow. These are duels you can’t win, folks, so it pays not to try.

Over the last eight weeks I’ve paid dearly to learn these lessons. I’ve cashed in my pride, farmed out my innocence, and learned more about teams like Iona and UC Santa Cruz than I ever thought I could. I do this because in that sick, twisted way that many of us are all too familiar with, I can’t help myself. I do this because at the end of the day, it’s still a whole of fun. But mostly, I do this so you don’t have to.

The War Room, accessible HERE or via the tab at the top of this page, will serve from this day forward as the battle station through which all future gambling strike plans shall be forged. If my upcoming picks are defenseless, 13th-century Scottish villages, think of the War Room as the British stronghold of York. If future over/unders are peaceful planet-moons, The War Room is the Death Star. In short, (or for people who aren’t into dumbass movie analogies) it’s the staging point for all the hay we’re about to make together. In it you’ll find a running performance tally (wins and losses), tricks of the trade, lessons learned, and most importantly, my pick of the day (which, starting today, will also always be located on the home page over there ------->).

As we embark on this Devil dance together, I can’t guarantee we’ll win every night. I can’t promise that that ass, like mine, won’t be sore form time to time. However, rest assured that my picks will be well-researched, and my decisions well-planned. Take solace that I will never enter the War Room lightly, and that I will never (again) bet on something as utterly pointless as Bassmasters. We may not always win, but by George we’ll have fun, and for those used to the gambling grind, there’s something to be said for that.

Come along with me then, stiff-arm that midget, and let’s take home some clams together.

To the War Room.

The "Sports Tattoo": A Beginning

Earlier this month in his post-apocolyptic Super Bowl reflection, Patriots fanatic and peoples’ champ of sports bloggers Bill Simmons forged a wonderfully simple yet poignant concept: the Sports Tattoo.

In recounting Tom Brady’s last-second heave into the crowded Giant end zone, Simmons described the way the seconds on the clock slowed as the pass spiraled forty yards through the air, the world blanketed in silence just before the ball fell harmlessly to the turf.

For Pats fans, that moment stood still.

Then, as these moments so often do, it exploded.

The bulbs overhead punched on.The mute button on a stadium of thousands released. Brady’s signature glare softened as he trudged off the field. Confetti rained from the rafters.

All New England fans could do was stare.

Those fleeting seconds, as Brady’s prayer floated toward the end zone, won’t live long with most Boston fans, though. For as Simmons explains, as mind-numbing and world-altering as that moment may have seemed, it will soon rest alongside all others of its kind -- unanswered pleas to Sport’s higher power.

Instead, what transcend are the rare bytes of history that, in one swing of a bat or tick of a clock, renew our faith as fans. The moments where, inexplicably, things go right.

The Catch in San Fransisco. Carlton Fisk waving a home run fair in Game 6. The Immaculate Reception. Plays that, for one unifying moment, held us in rapt attention, hoping and praying that just this once we could catch a break.

Those moments, the way they never quite leave you, those are Sports Tattoos.

The historic woes of Boston sports are well-chronicled, so I‘m sure most would allow Simmons and his Boston buddies to wallow a bit in opportunities lost and fortunes turned. Yet instead, The Sports Guy points to the miracle moments -- the game-changers, the gifts from above-- as the true beacons, capable of pulling even the most decimated fan out of the rubble.

Because those are what we live for, those of us who live for sports. We spend our days gazing hopefully, often naively, toward the next great moment that can pull us through the rest.

Some, like Simmons and fans of New England sports rest easier, as the canvas of their fanhood has spent the better part of a decade getting fresh ink. Three rings in Foxborough. Two at TD Garden. Two at Fenway. Even in defeat, they can exalt in knowing how it feels to stand at the top of that mountain. Those moments are their Sports Tattoos.

Then, there’s the rest of us.

We are the restless majority. For us, moments like Sunday’s would carve right into the soul.

We're the legion of the deprived, staggering from season to season, pursuing what now has become the unthinkable, the unimaginable, even the undeserved.

Our tattoos are the butterfly tramp-stamps, high school sweetheart initials, barbwire biceps. They’re the touchdowns fumbled away, the ninth innings blown, and the last second three’s that caught nothing but air.

Every day we’re haunted by these ghouls from the past, staring at the mirror in hate and disgust. Every day we search for that one moment to wash them all away.

There are those who win, and then there's us.

Welcome to Journeymen.

* * *


I can’t think of a better way to describe the inspiration for this blog, other than to recount a discussion I had last fall with the right fielder from my softball team, an old-timer from South Philly named Boone.

As we tossed the ball casually to warm up, me in sweats, he in the i’ve-played-softball-for-forty-years-uniform (skin-tight pin striped baseball pants), our conversation turned, per usual, to professional sports.

It was October, and the Philies had just been bounced from the playoffs two days ago by the Cardinals. Boone had clearly been doing the drunk-hangover-drunk-again tango for the last thirty hours, and was now firmly entrenched in a post-shock depression.

Now, the Phillies have done a lot of winning recently, so as a fan of the third-world Reds, my sympathy level for Philly sports pain usually hovers somewhere between zero and give-me-a-f***ing-break. Still, I indulged him.

The gist of his gripe, of course, was that there’s no way a team as stacked as the 2011 Phils should have gotten punked the way they did. With a rotation led by Roy Halladay and Cliff Lee and the cash flow to acquire a star at the trade deadline (Hunter Pence), Philly should have laughed its way to the World Series.

In short, Boone felt cheated, and no amount of Busch Light and Marlboro Reds was gonna’ make him feel differently.

Of course I understood Boone’s point of view. As a fan of any sport, you spend the months leading up to the season preparing yourself for what level of success (or failure) to expect. Then, as the season progresses, those expectations are either bolstered or altered, depending on how things play out. Either way though, fans cling to those expectations, especially in baseball, and especially in the playoffs.

The Cardinals dismantling of the Phillies, a team that was supposed to be unbeatable, shook the very core of the town. And in Boone’s eyes, it was actually the build-up to the pain that made it so unbearable. He even went as far as saying he wished they’d never won those 102 games -- because, basically, all they amounted to was one big empty promise.

On one hand, I felt for Boone. It can’t feel good to be on the receiving end of that kind of monumental letdown, where you’re sitting at the table, napkin tucked into your shirt, expecting a filet, and the chef walks out with bologna. It’s sickening.

However, there’s a worse kind of pain.

The sad truth is that while the Phillies were watching Skip Shumacker and his gang of yahoos pluck a ring out of midair, there were about 30 teams sitting at home.

Yes, Boone, you got your wrinkled ass handed to you in the playoffs. But at least you got there.

No, Boone, you didn’t win the last game you played, but few do.

The reality is that if you ask any baseball fan in Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Kansas City, or pretty much anywhere else besides the Bronx, they’d tell you they'd eat their left testicle for four straight Championship series berths.

Sorry Boone, but pain isn’t not reaching the Series; it's not even getting close.


* * *


I can’t recall how my exchange with Boone ended that day. Chances are, he tossed out a couple expletives, kicked over the half-empty beer nestled in the grass next to his Spalding turf shoes, and wandered off to pee on a tree.

Regardless, our conversation stuck with me, and clued me in to a few concepts that would later serve as founding principles for this blog.

First, losing is relative. The same season that made Boone and his darts team suffer a collective brain hemorrhage would probably have the Mayors in DC or Seattle planning a parade. Likewise, Diamondbacks fans recently celebrated their second playoff appearance in nine years, yet that run of “success” would probably have baseball fans in New York heading for the nearest window.

Second, pain is universal. Ask any fan of any sport in any country in the world, and you’ll get the same response: It hurts to lose way, WAY more than it feels good to win. It’s why every sports nut has about three hundred dejected stories of defeat for every one tale of victory. And, it’s why Boone spent his October just as heartbroken as I did, even though his team got an inch from playing for it all, while mine sat at home playing Wii.

Third, and most importantly, as sports fans we’re never content. Some of us go decades without seeing our team reach the mountaintop. We’re the majority, and every season, be it baseball, football, or women’s lacrosse, is just another chapter in what seems like an endless (and sometimes hopeless) crusade.

Even those lucky enough to see a championship in their lifetime inevitably will spend the years that follow pining for another. And, of course, those who take home back-to-back championships can barely take a breath before starting to daydream about the ever-elusive “dynasty”; a status that only a three-peat can ensure.

Indeed, as fans we’re always searching, always looking ahead. The road never really ends, and if it did, where exactly would we be? The fact is, we want it that way. Nay, we need it that way. Because in the end, it’s the pain along the way that keeps us longing for the joy. Without the lows, there are no highs.

The reality then, is that what makes us fans has nothing to do with the destination. It’s the search that defines us, and for that, we’re all Journeymen.