CHAMPIONSHIIIIIIP: Best/Worst Case Scenarios for the Bungles

As Organized Team Activities (OTAs) begin in NFL cities around the country this week, it would be hard to find a fanbase that is quite as geeked up as Cincinnati’s.

Sure, the Giants are coming off an improbable Super Bowl run, the Packers have the pieces to be a veritable juggernaut, and the Redskins added a slew of marginal wide receivers. Bengals fans, though, have as much of a right to celebrate the unofficial beginning of this 2012 offseason as anyone.

Maybe more.

Fresh off a rebuilding-turned-surprise-playoff season (and like 200 years of sloppy ineptitude before that), the Bengals faithful is riding a high into the 2012 season. As division bullies in Baltimore and Pittsburgh age (Ray Lewis, Ed Reed, Troy Polamalu) and/or get injured (Terrell Suggs, Phil Taylor), the Bengals welcome the first full offseason for their young, dynamic core. A team that won a surprising nine games and had what most media outlets considered to be the best draft in the league, Cincy just seems poised to unseat fools.

However, key positions look to be manned by youngsters, from quarterback (Andy Dalton) and wide receiver (A.J. Green), to strong safety (Taylor Mays) and middle linebacker (Rey Maualuga). Consistency has to be a question.

Just like every other playoff hopeful, the Bengals have questions to answer and holes to fill. And while the pads don’t come on until later in the summer, it’s not too early to speculate on how things will shake out at Paul Brown Stadium in 2012.

Here are the best/worst case scenarios for some of the Bengals’ most important issues.

1. BEST Case: Mohammed Sanu or Marvin Jones get the #2. The Bengals were already young at wide receiver in 2011, starting a rookie (Green) and another guy who had played about seven NFL snaps in Jerome Simpson. This year, as Simpson takes his marijuana farm to Minnesota and team geriatric Andre Caldwell (27) heads to Denver, the Bengals are looking to get major contributions from a litter of kittens.

Of the candidates to start opposite Green, it would be most encouraging if either Sanu or Jones won a job. Mainly because both guys were drafted this year and reportedly have great upside (therefore strengthening the growing belief that after 46 years, the franchise has finally learned how to draft). However, sliding Jones/Sanu into the number two slot would also mean not resigning to less attractive options. While University of Cincinnati product Armon Binns may be a fan favorite (and a practice squad stud), I’m not sure our fanciest plan should be to start a guy who couldn’t even make a 53-man roster last year.

WORST Case: Sanu/Jones/Binns all prove to be green, forcing the Bengals brass to sign someone like University of Michigan product Braylan Edwards. Who, coincidentally, can’t catch a G-D cold.

2. BEST Case: Carlos Dunlap Dominates. 2010 was a learning experience for most Bengals fans. We learned that losing 10 games in a row can feel like a fist to the anus. We learned that Carson Palmer’s game had deteriorated to hobo-status. And, we learned that Carlos Dunlap is an absolute man-child.

As a rookie, the defensive end out of Florida had 9.5 sacks, while only getting significant PT in six games. And while last year he only managed 4.5, his season was shortened by a hamstring injury in Week 12. Assuming Dunlap is all the way back, and assuming he’s not overused (shouldn’t be a necessity...the Bengals have a FLEET of D-linemen), Dunlap could register 15 sacks easily.

WORST Case: While “re-injured hammie” might be the true worst case scenario here, I think a more likely issue could be over-use, which leads to fatigue, which leads to ineffectiveness. Dunlap is at his best on third down, when he can bulldoze through left tackles and chomp on QBs. Here’s hoping D-Coordinator Mike Zimmer can resist the temptation of running his best pass-rusher out of gas.

3. BEST Case: Dontay Moch sees the field. Bengals fans in the know may be raising their eyebrows at this one, but there’s a case to be made here. Moch was the team’s third selection in last year’s draft, a linebacker rumored to be a fast, fearless pass rusher who could contribute immediately on third down. Unfortunately, he battled injuries and migraines all season, and never got a sniff of action. If he can stay healthy, Moch’s size/speed blend could be a great addition to this year’s class of newcomers. This one is all about not wasting an investment.

Worst Case: Rumors of a Moch four-game suspension for PED use hold true, he falls even further behind, and a high 2011 pick is squandered.

4. BEST Case: Taylor Mays doesn’t get torched. Prior to the 2010 draft, I was crossing all my appendages in hopes that the Bengals would get a chance to select Mays. Not because I had seen many USC games, and not because I’m really that fit to evaluate future NFL talent. I basically just knew he was one of the best college safeties in the country, I knew the Bengals needed a safety more than anything, and I knew Taylor Mays looked like this (no, not the sore thumb in the plaid pajama pants). As it turned out, Mays dropped to the second round (49th overall), spent one year in San Fran, and ended up coming over to the Bengals before last season for a 7th round draft choice.

The knock on Mays is simple. He can’t cover. And with only 60-odd snaps last season, I’m not that confident yet in us handing the secondary keys to a guy whose stock plummeted so precipitously. Even if he does look like he invented the Bow-Flex.

All signs point to Mays starting at strong safety on Day 1. If he’s serviceable in coverage ( I mean how much worse can he be than Chris Crocker?), I’ll be satisfied. If he’s serviceable in coverage AND uses his freakish athletic ability to somehow break Big Ben’s jaw, I’ll be happy.

WORST Case: Taylor Mays does, in fact, get torched. A lot.

5. BEST Case: Vontaze Burfict Makes the Team. One could make the case that Burfict, more than Dre Kirkpatrick, Kevin Zeitler, or Devon Still) was the most tantalizing Bengals offseason pickup. Even as an undrafted free agent.

Most of us know the Burfict story. Projected last season to be a mid-first round pick. Fierce hitter. Heir apparent to Ray Lewis, if the Ravens could trade up to get him. Then some personal fouls happened (like, 16 of them). Then out of shape happened. Then a positive drug test happened.

Still, by the time Burfict signed with the Bengals (prompting anyone who knows anything about the Bengals and/or played out jokes to chuckle), he was saying and doing the right things, he was slimming down (relatively speaking), and head coach Marvin Lewis was singing his praises.

I’m pretty sure the hope of 95% of Bengals fans is this: Somewhere, deep in the recesses of Burfict’s being, there HAS to be some first round talent, right?? If so, Burfict making the team would seem to indicate that the Bengals feel they can tap into that talent. A future Maualuga/Burfict tandem at linebacker could be downright scary in the AFC North.

WORST Case: Burfict keeps smoking reefers, keeps acting entitled, doesn’t make the team, gets picked up by the Steelers, and goes on to break Andy Dalton’s sternum. None of these things would surprise me at all.

6. BEST Case: AFC North losses help the Bengals go 5-1 in the division. As mentioned earlier, each AFC North squad has had to endure some significant losses this offseason. Except the Bengals, that is. The Ravens lost their best defensive player to injury in Terrell Suggs (sorry Baltimore, Reed/Lewis are finally getting old...deal with it). The Browns lost their nose tackle (Phil Taylor), and the Steelers were forced to shed some of their backbone (Aaron Smith, Hines Ward, James Farrior) due to cap concerns. Meanwhile, the Bengals biggest losses were Jerome “disappear for games at a time” Simpson at wideout, and two replaceable role players from the defensive line (Frostee Rucker and Jon Fanene).

Since sweeping the division in 2009, Cincy has gone 4-8 against its rivals. This year, I expect 4-2 or 5-1 if things go as planned.

WORST Case: Cincinnati continues to be plagued with “shrinking-in-big-moments-itis” (which is like the worst “itis” a team can have). They manage to beat the Browns once, maybe steal one from the bullies, but continue to be second-class citizens.

7. BEST Case: Dre Kirkpatrick lines up opposite Leon Hall on Day 1. It pains me to root against a Buckeye, but I’m not sure Nate Clements is the answer at the number two cornerback position. At 32, he’s definitely lost a few steps, and he put multiple examples of that on tape last year. Kirkpatrick was the Bengal’s first overall selection in this year’s draft, which means he’s obviously a huge talent. Pair that with his rough-shod physical play (which is exactly what Zimmer looks for in his corners), and he has a good shot of picking things up quickly.

WORST Case: Dre needs time to develop, and Hall experiences a setback in his rehab, sending him to the PUP list. The Bengals start the season with Terence Newman and Pacman Jones at corner. Everyone (including Taylor Mays) gets Crockered all season long.

8. BEST Case: Maualuga stops being a weenie. It would be hard to contend that, to now, Rey Maualuga has been anything but a disappointment. When the Bengals were able to grab him in the second round in the 2009 draft, I was ecstatic. I expected a lot of this, even more of this, and not quite as much of this. Unfortunately, Who-Dey Rey has limped his way through two seasons, been moved from one position to another, and hasn’t yet become anywhere close to the bulldog presence every AFC North team needs.

If Rey can stay healthy and improve, and therefore log a whole season at his natural position (MLB), I’ll be more than satisfied.

WORST Case: Another injury would be tough to take, as it would be yet another road-block in this guy’s development. However, if Rey were to play a full season and not progress (continue to overrun the ball, get lost in traffic, etc.), the future of this defense could truly be up poop creek.

9. BEST Case: Derrick Harvey and Jamaal Anderson combine for 10 sacks. This might be a huge reach. Especially when you consider this tandem combined for only three last season, but are expected to replace two productive D-linemen lost to free agency (Rucker and Fanene, who combined for 10.5). Still, this is a best case scenario projection, and being that Anderson and Harvey are former first rounders, they may just have enough juice left to flourish in Zimmer’s system. Currently, it’s unknown whether both of these guys (or even one of them) will make the squad - they were brought in for depth. However, if even one catches on, it’s a win if he provides 10 sack-o’s. Or eight.

OK fine, I’d take six.

WORST Case: This might be the least worrisome of the worst cases. If Harvey and Anderson don’t impress in training camp, they’r el ikely gone. After all, Cincinnati is FLUSH with great young defensive linemen. It won’t hurt much to get zero out of these guys, as long as Michael Johnson, Dunlap, Robert Geathers, Domata Peko, Devon Still, Geno Atkins and Brandon Thompson stay out of the training room.

10. BEST Case: The Bengals win the division at 12-4.No, seriously, it’s possible. Stay with me...

Week 1 @ BAL: WIN. Bengals focus in the MNF opener, beat the Suggs-less Ravens.
Week 2 v CLE: WIN. Browns are a mess. Home opener.
Week 3 @ WAS: WIN. Bengals gut out a tough road win, D-line ravages RG3’s confidence.
Week 4 @ JAX: WIN. Despite new weapons, Blaine Gabbert is still Blaine Gabbert.
Week 5 v MIA: WIN. New coach, new QB, less weapons = rough season for the Fins.
Week 6 @ CLE: WIN. T-Rich makes this tough, but the better team wins again.
Week 7 v PIT: LOSS. 6-0 start ends here, Stillers come to play.
Week 8 BYE
Week 9 v DEN: WIN. I could see this one going either way. Home game? Bengals eek it out.
Week 10 v NYG: LOSS. Not enough secondary to stop the Giant passing attack.
Week 11 @ KC: LOSS. This team will have its stars back. Tough place to play.
Week 12 v OAK: WIN. Bengals D makes Palmer look like, well, Carson Palmer.
Week 13 @ SD: LOSS. Cincy is atrocious on the West coast.
Week 14 v DAL: WIN. Another tough game at home, Bengals rebound from SD loss.
Week 15 @ PHI: WIN. The Iggles will drop a bunch of games they shouldn’t.
Week 16 @ PIT: WIN. Revenge.
Week 17 v BAL: WIN. Bengals continue to solve Ravens, get that first round bye.

WORST Case: Honestly, this is NOT an easy schedule for the Bengals, especially after the first seven games (which I see them definitely winning five of). That being said, I could see a repeat of 2012 going down, aka beating who they should beat, and getting edged out by playoff-caliber squads. If that were the case, I could see losses at Philly and Pittsburgh, and losses vs Dallas and Baltimore. But 8-8 is as low as they’ll go.

Reed Domer-Shank

JOURNEYMEN Commander and Home Team Yes-Man

The Game of Thrones Death Pool

I’ll start this with a disclaimer: if you don’t watch HBO’s Game of Thrones, you’re a goddamn bloody moron. It’s that simple.

Alright, so that’s a bit callous. And maybe a slight exaggeration. OK fine, geez, I’ll take it back. But only because I love that you take a few minutes out of your busy schedule to read this blog, and I appreciate the heck out of you. NOT because I think Game of Thrones isn’t that good.

Because it most definitely is.

See, similar to the rest of HBO’s lineup, Game of Thrones (GoT) is loaded with talented actors, brilliant cinematography, and thoughtful attention to detail. And, more importantly, it gives us the weekly dose of gore/profanity/boobs that we’ve come to expect from premium cable.

But Game of Thrones is about more than blood and cans. Much more.

As a quick aside, I’m a sucker for these types of period shows/movies. Not only do I have a real live claymore in my basement, I also constantly quote Braveheart, which is just as badass and epic today as it was when I watched it three times a week as a Magic-the-Gathering-playing 7th grader. (This typically manifests itself whenever Reds’ right fielder Jay Bruce hits a homerun, at which point I’ll yell “THE BRUCE MUST NOT BE HARMED,” or when my friends and I are out on the town and they warn me about dividing our forces, to which I’ll reply “DO IT, and let the English see you do it.”)

But you don’t have to be a sword-collecting warlock jockey to love Game of Thrones, or at least to appreciate its superiority amongst the rest of the spring television slate. From the mind of George R. R. Martin (is that just a BLATANT homage to J. R. R. Tolkien, or what? Am I missing something?), GoT is set in a world all its own (Westeros), complete with a map, which (as noted by Grantland writer Andy Greenwald here) catapults it into a whole ‘nother stratosphere of fantasy badassery.

And unlike most TV shows that revolve around four or five main characters, the cast of Game of Thrones is as varied and widespread as Westeros itself. As only HBO can, GoT seamlessly flits between the inner turmoils of each and every warring house, masterfully blending themes of family, duty, and the fear of the unknown. And, the fact that it’s based on five massive books (which will eventually be seven, I believe) means the brief glimpse we’ve gotten thus far into the world of the Starks, Lannisters, and the Night’s Watch is only that - a glimpse. With each passing episode, Game of Thrones gives its viewers the unshakable feeling that the most compelling is yet to come.

And if there’s anything that gets close to the sheer joy of watching a new Game of Thrones episode (news flash: there isn’t), it would be dissecting it the next day. Now, usually I’d be content talking about GoT with anyone. Like, if the homeless woman outside 7-11 were to somehow offer her insights on the Stannis/Renly Baratheon feud, I’d be all ears, and I’d probably buy her a taquito as a token of my goodwill. Unfortunately, most people I know (or at least most people on my G-chat buddy list at 8:30am on Mondays), for some unfathomable/unholy reason, don’t watch Game of Thrones. And as much as I view this as an arrestable offense, there’s apparently not much I can do about it (besides asking them a few times a week what they thought about Sunday’s episode, which succeeds in being super annoying.) So, generally I’m left with one option.

Luckily for me, it’s a good one.

If you know me well at all, you know how intensely “busy” things can get at my job and how I’m usually left with “little to no” free time whatsoever to catch my breath. Well, somehow these “rare” occasions always coincide with similar “moments” of availability that come up in my friend Seeds’ schedule, so both of our Game of Thrones cravings are able to be satisfied.

Seeds is a buddy from graduate school, who’s since established himself as one of JOURNEYMEN’s most trusted allies. His list of qualifications is lengthy, and includes “lead guitarist in my band”, “frequent sleepover compadre”, and “groomsmen in my wedding.” Those, however, mean virtually nothing in the face of his most valuable attribute, which is his willingness to shoot the beeswax with me “periodically” throughout the work day so neither of us “loses our mind” or “goes postal” Typically our conversations never stray too far from our core values, which center around TV, people we hate, Taco Bell, and our portfolios. And when it comes to Game of Thrones (the greatest show that ever was or will be), we typically leave no element un-analyzed. It is this partnership that makes Seeds one of the most valued bannermen in my realm. And if you don’t know what that means, just click on this, or if you think that makes me sound like a twinkie, click on this.

Recently, Seeds and I were discussing just how gruesome/fearless the show has been, all the way from the start. In Season One, (spoiler alert!) the protagonist, Ned Stark (played by Boromir, a.k.a Sean Bean), is beheaded in front of his children. And in Season Two, we’ve already seen the most viable option for the Iron Throne (Renly Baratheon) stabbed through the heart, as well as a member of House Stark’s royal guard (Sir Rodrik) get his head hacked off in the most awkward way possible. In short, unlike many series we’ve come across, Game of Thrones seems more than willing to eliminate main characters as quickly and casually as it changes scenes.

This got us to thinking. How likely is it that every Sunday one of the characters we’ve come to know and love will be given the unceremonious squadoosh? Is anyone safe? Should I be bringing my claymore to work??

After a couple “minutes” of discussion, Seeds and I decided to do what we usually do when we’re really “busy”, which is take our conversation to a whole new level, raise the stakes, make a bunch of haughty and braggadocious claims, and eventually set up a scenario where at least one of us will eventually have to pay the Iron Price.

That’s how the Game of Thrones Death Pool came to be.

The idea behind the Death Pool is simple: predict which characters will be the last to die.The specifics of our contract, however, were much more complex. First, we created a shared Google excel document, and listed all the major characters in the show (and the fact that we came up with 36 should make you gasp in astonishment and bow further to the rich complexity and enthralling story of GoT). Then, as any red-blooded American male is wont to do in situations such as these, we held a draft. Each character we selected was added to our respective “team,” which meant that we’d hope they survive, while we were rooting for everyone else to get the White Walker Special.

The stakes of our wager were two-fold. First and most importantly, the team with the most characters standing at series end (yes, probably seven years from now) receives a sword of their choice from www.wholesalesword.com. It only seemed fitting. I tried to convince Seeds that first-born children would more accurately reflect the importance of this competition (unless they were girls), but he seemed to think he’d have a five-year old by then, and uprooting young Pierre would be too painful at that point. Then I tried to convince him that the loser should warrant a punch to the kidney, and he again declined, which made me want to punch him in the kidney even more.

Part two was much more simplistic. Every time one of characters gets offed, we immediately have to chug/shotgun a beer. No exceptions. Being that the show airs on Sunday nights at 9pm, and being that multiple characters are sometimes whacked in the same episode, I feel this clause has the potential to be very interesting.

When it was all said and done, we each were left with a team of 16 characters. I’ll let YOU decide who got the better end. But first, here’s how it all went down...

Pick #1 (Seeds): Tyrion Lannister - I won’t pretend to know what went through Seeds’ mind when he made this pick or his other ones; we never really did much debriefing when the picking was done. So, I’ll just have to guess. Tyrion Lannister (known as “the imp”) is the black sheep third child in the Lannister family (the wealthiest House in Westeros and the biggest bunch of shit-eaters you’ll find in pretty much any book anywhere.) However, if there's any Lannister out there with a shred of goodness, it’s Tyrion. A dwarf, he’s been shunned by his family his whole life and has learned to rely on his wits and charm to survive. Currently, Tyrion resides in King’s Landing (the capitol of Westeros) and is tasked with making sure his 16-year old demon-child nephew Joffrey doesn’t piss away his reign of ineptitude. Not a bad pick by Seeds here, as Tyrion has been a lead character in the show since day one, and because he has way less enemies than the rest of the Lannisters. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s against the Westerosi honor code to kill a midget.

Pick#2 (Reed): Arya Stark - The Stark family are the protagonists of this story, so my thinking is when it’s all said and done, some of them will still be breathing. I picked Arya (the tomboyish 11-year old who’s currently traipsing around Lannister camp, posing as a orphan and working as the Lord Tywin Lannister’s “cupbearer”) first for a couple reasons. A) She’s the sole carrier of a plotline. If she were to bite it, our window into the enemy camp would be lost, which would render the whole build-up to her predicament a huge waste of time. B) She’s an 11-year old girl. Very few shows/books have the cajones to kill off children. Goin’ with the odds here.

Pick#3 (Seeds): Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish - Two picks in, and it’s already obvious that Seeds is subconsciously constructing a team in his own image. First, he picks the only character in the show that can’t get on rides at Six Flags (Seeds stands 5’6 in heels). Second, he picks the “Master of Coin”, a.k.a the guy who spends every minute of every show slinking around various castles, pitting Houses against one another and generally just pissing everyone off. Seeds has always been a shifty bastard, so I guess he figured what’s good for the goose IS, in fact, good for the gander. Nice work, Dr. Frankenstein.

Pick #4: (Reed): Jaime Lannister - Anyone who’s ever done a fantasy sports draft knows the feeling. It’s your turn, you’re flipping back and forth between stats and your roster and other people’s rosters. You’re googling and IMDBing and Pinterest is there and you’re sweating and people are talking too loud and GODDAMMIT WHAT DO I DO, and then before you know it the red clock has ticked all the way down to zero and somehow you blacked out and took a third kicker. Looking back, I’m SURE that’s what must have happened when I picked Jaime Lannister, the most reviled character this side of Joffrey. As we speak, Jaime sits in a jail cell, guarded by the whole Stark army (all of whom want his head on a salad). I guess my thinking was that at some point the Lannisters would barter for him, or maybe he’d pull a Jack Sparrow parlay on everybody. Either way, I figured Jaime would last pretty long, because he’s a nifty swordsmith and he’s hated JUST enough to be kept around. There’s gotta’ be conflict or there’s no Game, just a Throne. Right?

Picks #5 and #7 (Seeds): Gendy and Varys (“The Spider”) - With his next two picks, Seeds proved again that he’s content with having a team full of total wild cards. Gendry’s the bastard son of the late King Robert Baratheon, sent north via a caravan of criminals to the Wall for his own protection. Along with Arya, Gendry’s group was re-routed when the Lannister Foot Clan caught up with them, and now he’s holed up somewhere in Harrenhal with the rest of the Lannister P.O.W.’s. None of us know much about this guy, except that he’s kind of gruff and kind of nice and a low key BAMF. That being said, he could easily die tomorrow in a structure fire and the show would be fine. Varys, similar to Littlefinger, is a member of the King’s Council in King’s Landing, and also spends his time slinking around, whispering in people’s ears and making sure no one wants to stab him. He’s another one that could last until the end due to his manipulations, or get caught in his own web and get skewered.

Picks #6 and #8 (Reed): Daeneyrs Targaryen and Jon Snow - The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced my strategies were flawed in this draft. Jon Snow (the bastard son of Ned Stark, so pretty much a Stark) was a solid choice, because (like Arya) he’s been a central character and has been the driving force of a whole plotline (his journey to become a Ranger of the Night’s Watch at the Wall.) Daeneyrs, on the other hand, might have a hard time staying alive. She’s a hot headed foreigner who thinks she’s got a claim to the Iron Throne, and assumes her pet dragons will help her take it. Her cavalier attitude doesn’t exactly scream “compromise”, so eventually she’s either going to have to become a lot more sympathetic, or she’s toast.

Picks #9 and #11 (Seeds): Sir Davos Seaworth and Sandor Clegane (“The Hound”) - Seeds batted .500 on this one. The Hound was a great pick because even though he’s spent the whole show serving Joffrey, he’s shown a particular fondness for Sansa (Joffrey’s captive queen-to-be), and seems to always want to do the right thing. Seaworth, however, was totally out of left field. As second in command to Stannis Baratheon (another dude who thinks he has a claim to the throne), Davos has barely been featured in any episodes, and reeks of someone who might die trying to defend his boy. The only way he lives is if Stannis ends up on top, which I don’t think anyone sees happening, mainly because Stannis has the charisma of a vacuum cleaner.

Picks #10 and #12 (Reed): Bran Stark and Samwell Tarly - Ever since Robb Stark went off to the lead the Northern army and Sansa was held in King’s Landing as part of Westeros’ favorite betrothal-gone-bad, Bran (a 13-year old cripple) was left as the sole “defender” of Winterfell (the Stark’s digs.) Similar to the other Stark’s I took, I doubt he’ll die, basically cuz’ he’s a really central protagonist. Also, his legs don’t work, and people kill cripples even less often than they kill midgets. Sam Tarly, on the other hand, is Jon’s fat friend that he met at the Wall. I’d say I doubt he gets killed because of his harmless/likeable factor, but let’s face it: if horror movies have taught us anything, it’s that flabby nice guys get the axe a LOT of the time. I’m just praying he never has to run for his life, because the fumes from his thighs rubbing together would definitely kill him, as well as anyone in his vicinity.

The Rest (Picks #13 through #36) - If the first twelve picks seemed arbitrary, the next 24 were a fully-blown crapshoot. I won’t go into every pick, even though I’m sure if you’re still reading it's probably because you're A) a GoT fanatic, or B) George R.R. Martin himself. Seeds came down with some solid picks, including Robyn Arryn, the 8-year old “Lord” of the Vale, who spends more time breast-feeding from his mother’s teet than he does making military decisions. He’s a zany little F, but I’m not sure he’ll end up dying, mainly because he doesn’t really pose a threat to the Iron Throne and he spends most of his time at Kinder Care.

I got a few good ones at the tail end too, namely Robb Stark at #26. Robb could end up being my Tom Brady, in that he got picked really low but could end up winning me the championship/doing underwear ads.

And finally, to close out the draft, each of us were forced to pick three or four guys we knew had a great chance of dying sometime in, OHHH, the next 30 minutes or so. Guys like Joffrey, who has the Northern army hunting his pubescent ass while his own subjects are throwing cow patties at his face. Or guys like Gregor Clegane (Tywin Lannister’s main man), who’s been cruisin’ for a bruisin’ since Season One (where he burned innocent cities and cut the head off a damn horse.) These picks, ending with a string of Greyjoy’s (basically the Westeros equivalent of the al-Qaeda), made us want to punch ourselves in the face as we made them. They had to be done though. Otherwise no one would be chugging beers on a Sunday night anytime soon, and that would be absolutely no fun.

So that’s it, folks. Those are the lists. One Dream Team (Seeds'), and one patchwork assembly of retarded stepchildren (mine). Tune in to JOURNEYMEN every Monday, where I’ll update our progress, provide scrumptious anecdotes about the greatest show that ever was or ever will be, and possibly even post a video of me shotgunning Ginny Light over my kitchen sink in my pajamas.

And, in the meantime, do us all a favor and sign up for HBO, you freaking Scrooge McDuck. Watch Game of Thrones from the beginning, and thank me later. At best, you’ll be a witness to one of the greatest stories ever told. At worst, you’ll see ta-ta’s every Sunday before you go to bed.

Pretty sure everyone wins in that Game.

Reed Domer-Shank
JOURNEYMEN Creator and Protector of the Realm

And featuring:

Seeds
JOURNEYMEN Content Developer and Braavosi Look-alike

What's A Sport, What's Not, And Why: An Authoritative Essay

Dave was the authority. Or at least that’s what everyone assumed...

Back when I was making nine bucks an hour working for the YMCA, Dave was the Sports Director and (for much of the time I was there) my de facto boss. And I say de facto because half of the time I was working for someone else, and the other half I was hanging around Dave’s office, asking when the next poker night was and badgering him to give me hours sorting shirts or pumping up basketballs.

Dave was a great guy, well-respected for the work he did within the Y, and knowledgeable about most aspects of youth sports, so I guess that’s why everyone trusted him.

Even though he never came up with a shred of proof.

See, being that we worked in a sports-focused environment, ran sports programs all day, and were surrounded by a staff of mostly dudes, it’s understandable that most of our conversations were about sports (or chicks...or pizza...but mostly sports.) And, over the years there’d inevitably be young guns, fresh off their HR paperwork, wanting to toss around bowling stories or talk about the latest NASCAR gossip.

As you can imagine, it never took long before we sent that weak sauce back to the jar.

You have to understand, as professional purveyors of sport, we took the term seriously. That’s why when a 17-year old high school kid spoiled a perfectly good football conversation by bringing up the X Games, we felt it was our responsibility to take him to school. Certain activities are sports, we’d say, and certain activities are games. And then there are certain activities that are barely activities at all, which is why card tables and game rooms were invented.

Call us elitists, but we felt it was our duty as YMCA educators to delineate between the good, bad, and completely irrelevant in the world of sports and leisure. If for no other reason than so our students didn’t get shitcanned on the schoolyard for talking about Motocross.

Usually we had no problem making our case, because like most things in life, sports can be “passed” or “failed” via your basic smell test. However, anytime we ever had someone coming in with delusions of diving or skateboarding, someone who was unwilling to listen to reason, we’d have to resort to Dave’s “list.”

Which would have been great if, ya’ know, it actually existed.

As legend has it, when he was in school for his exercise science degree (or sports administration, or kinesiology, or something like that), Dave crafted a term paper that would revolutionize the way people everywhere would come to view sports. Maybe it was an assignment, or maybe he was just sick of people calling Secretariat an “athlete.” That part of the story was never clear. Either way, Dave’s creation was said to be the be-all-end-all for these particular debates. It was a compilation of airtight tenets, rules, and conditions which were said to put every possible activity into one of two baskets: Sport, or Not-a-Sport. This list was known to be a brilliant contribution to academia, and was rumored to have been cited in several Title IX hearings and at least one episode of Dr. Phil (entitled Why All Our Kids Are Huge.).

The only trouble was, after almost 10 years of working for the Y, Dave’s carefully crafted tome had somehow fallen through the cracks. There were whispers that some of the longer-standing staff members had gotten a copy “ a few years ago” or had seen it “that one time last July”, and of course Dave always maintained that it was real and still existed in some form somewhere. But as I sit here today, I can honestly say I never saw it. I suppose people just trusted Dave’s judgement, assuming his position of Sports Director somehow brought with it the wisdom and impartiality of a seasoned arbiter. I, however, was never convinced.

A couple weeks ago, I was reminded of Dave’s “list” (and yes, I refuse to remove the parentheses until i see the damn thing in the flesh.) My coworker, Percy, and I were entrenched in an argument which was similar to most of the debates we’ve ever had (me trying to convince him he’s a moron.) Percy, a 30-something, somewhat nerdy-looking records clerk/medical assistant, was trying to tell me that a night of bowling can be a rigorous workout. It would follow, he contended, that bowling is as legitimate a sport as any other.

My first reaction was to offer to help him retrieve his head from his bunghole, but not only did that seem gross, it also could have been construed as inappropriate for the workplace. Instead, I resorted to telling him that putting bowling in the same category as football was nearly as ridiculous as those white stick-figure decals he has on the back windshield of his mini-van. (Really, Percy? You have three kids, a dog, and two cats? So does every other family in America. Call me when you get a dragon.)

As I proceeded to completely dismantle Percy’s arguments (it wasn’t that hard, seeing as he just kept repeating “but I’m in a league!”), I thought back to Dave, and how he might have handled this scenario. Not that I needed any help to squash Percy, but it would’ve been helpful to be able to point to an authoritative document instead of just showing him pictures like this.

So, the very next day, I set out to create a list of my own. The only difference, of course, would be that my list would actually exist and be available for reference, whereas Dave’s evidently resides in a crypt somewhere. Now, as confident as I am in my knowledge of sports (as well as my ability to be impartial), I decided to exercise due diligence and enlist the assistance of a friend of mine. For a document like this one, I needed a couple sets of eyes, and I needed someone who could be as even-handed and analytical as possible.

As usual, I followed my instincts and called the most calculating, cold-blooded S.O.B. I know, a friend from college who I refer to only as “Pickford.” I’ve known Pickford ever since we were freshmen at the College of Wooster, where he lived right across the hall and had a sign over his desk that read “Caution: Genius at Work.” Later, Pickford would be known to stock up liquor in his room and sell shots at exorbitant prices, a move that was just as shrewd as it was annoying. He also was the housemate of mine who, during our junior year, had sex with a fugly chick and then offered her a pillow from my bed ( I was out of town), only to have sex with her again a few minutes later, on said pillow.

In short, Pickford’s basically been my good friend/nemesis for going on 11 years, and I couldn’t think of a better person for the job than him.

For a few weeks, Pickford and I communicated via e-mail regarding every possible angle of this debate. Our primary intent was to come up with a few hard and fast qualifications that every activity should have to meet in order to be called a sport. However, we tried to tackle the question from a few different directions. For example, we made it a point to bring into question areas such as origin, function, popularity, and equipment usage, and we were also there to correct each other when personal biases threatened our mission (“I dare you to say that to Triple-H’s face” is a direct quote from one of Pickford’s e-mails.)

By the time we were done, I’m proud to say Pickford and I were able to accomplish two things. First, we were able to take Dave’s original concept and recreate it, to what we believe is the fairest and most accurate degree. And second, instead of compiling a 37-page Constitution, we were able to reduce our arguments to the simplest of denominators. Anything that wasn’t completely necessary was scrapped, leaving only the most essential and relevant elements (all for your reading pleasure).

Here’s what we came up with. Feel free to argue, but please know that at the end of the day, there really is no debate.

In order to qualify as a sport, an activity must...

1) Be athletic in nature. That is, requiring an exceptional degree of coordination, agility, cardio-vascular endurance and skill, relative to normal human function. This is FAR AND AWAY the most important of all the tenets, which is why let’s just say it is 1A, 1B, and 1C combined. Pretty much every definition you can find of “sport” will include some verbiage about “physical activity” or “physical exertion.” That a sport should involve some sort of physical element should not be debated. However, on this point we correlated “sports” very strongly with “athletics”, which is to say that sports must include levels of physical exertion that should far exceed pretty much every other aspect of normal day to day activity (shopping for groceries, getting gas, walking home from work.) To put it another way, if you take an “athlete” out of their chosen “sport” and pit them against others in a variety of other athletic events, will they acquit themselves well, sheerly based on their physical prowess? If so, you’re probably looking at a sport. If not, you’re looking at an activity that may or may not require skill. The two are different.

The main activity that comes into conflict with this primary tenet is golf. Golf is immensely popular - but there’s a reason for that: people can do it, even when they get old and out of shape. (Of course, this isn’t the only reason golf is popular, but it’s surely the reason it’s still loved/played by people in their 60’s, therefore making it universally appealing.) Now, golf proponents will immediately scoff at this, citing how strenuous it can be to play an 18-hole course while carrying a bag full of clubs. To that, I would urge them to simply take a second to reflect. So, what you’re saying is, a round of golf contains the requisite athleticism, because it requires you to walk for a couple hours carrying a heavy bag? Forget all that strength/speed/agility stuff - golf is a sport because it makes your feet sore. Is this really the argument?

Take your average golfer, put them in a neutral athletic competition with a basketball/football/hockey/lacrosse player (or any real athlete, for that matter) and they’re probably going to get crushed. To put it plainly, golf is a skill game, not an athleticism game, and that’s not enough to satisfy tenet number one.

2) Be acknowledged (as existing) by at least 50% of the population where it is played, and be upheld by a legitimate governing body. To illustrate this point most effectively, I’ll hearken back to the fall of 2001, when Pickford and I were freshmen living in a dank, cramped dormitory. Being the restless 18-year olds that we were, we and the other guys on our hall came up with a game to pass the time on nights when we should have been doing homework. Basically it started with a couple of us tossing a Frisbee at a beer can someone had left down the hall on a ledge to see who could hit it first. A few hours later, we had a full-blown competition on our hands, with rules, boundaries, penalties, and even seedings for future tournaments. Hall Frisbee had morphed into an interactive, extremely popular activity for all of us, and was a great way to take our minds off things like boobs, parties, the quad, and boobs. Still, outside of our 15-person crew, no one in the world had heard of Hall Frisbee, so what seemed like a sport to us couldn’t really be considered legitimate. The flip side of this argument (and part two of this tenet) is what we’ll refer to as the Buzkashi Principal. The goal of Buzkashi, reportedly, is to grab the carcass of a headless goat, get it clear of the other players, and pitch it across the goal line. Now, if you ask a thousand people in America wtf Buzkashi is, you’ll probably get 990 different answers, and then of course ten people that just call you a terrorist. However, I guarantee you’ll get a different response in Afghanistan, where it’s the NATIONAL F-ING SPORT (kind of badass, actually.) Basically, just because it’s not legit here, doesn’t mean it’s not legit elsewhere, xenophobia notwithstanding (America! Fuck yeah!)

3) Be competitive in nature, and must be decided as a result of two or more entities competing concurrently under the same circumstances and conditions, wherein the goal is to pronounce one entity the winner. Ok, so there are a couple different things going on here, but they’re all important. First, besides physical exertion/activity, competition is the key ingredient of any sport. In sports, there are winners and losers, and if at the end you find yourself to be neither, you’re probably either playing YMCA T-ball or something weird that has ties, like soccer. (I kid, soccer fans - chill, you’re safe.) Without competition, we would never have come up with crazy concepts like “standings” or “the score”, which I think we can all agree are now pretty commonplace.

Second, in order to be classified as a sport, the activity you’re involved in must feature you or your team against another person(s) or team(s). The pursuit of personal bests doesn’t really count, nor does that competition you used to have with your invisible friend Randy. Third (and this is where people will start loading up tomatoes), to be a sport, an activity must be waged on an even playing field, wherein two or more entities are pitted AGAINST each other, and where one entity's performance will affect the other’s. In most sports, this is a no-brainer. In baseball, hockey, lacrosse, and most other sports, you have two teams or two individuals competing at the same time, directly affecting their opponents’ chances of winning the game/match. However, in sports like swimming or track and field (or really just races of any kind), while opponents don’t DIRECTLY affect one another, the competition is still held all at once, so runners are affected by the progress of other runners, etc. Even though no one is knocking each other over or swimming into each other’s lanes, it’s still obvious that there is a competition that’s about to be decided.

4) Be concluded/decided per an objective criteria (points scored, time elapsed). This one seems obvious, but it’s still necessary. Judgement calls should have no place in sports, unless we’re talking about fat umpires who are slow to get into position or NBA referees who protect Lebron and Kobe like they’re Robert the Bruce. When the time runs out, or when you hit 21 points, you should know who won. Holding up signs with a 10 or 8 on them doesn’t cut it, no matter what those biased French judges might tell you.

5) Be played via a field, court, rink, or other large, contained and specified area. This is the one area where Pickford and I differed, and I had to basically end up playing the JOURNEYMEN dictator card. Pickford, for whatever reason, was pretty staunch in his belief that ping-pong is a sport, citing “proof” like “it’s played in the Olympics” and “Ummmm, Forrest Gump??” I, however, would contend that this is one way sports can be separated from games (by emphasizing “large”.) Sure, some games require you to move around a bit (darts, bocce, ping-pong) and sure, they may even have leagues for those games (or federations, designations, and configurations), but that doesn’t make them sports. I will not accept ping-pong (a game meant to be played for fun in a tweener’s basement) as a sport, just as I won’t accept air hockey, shuffleboard, pinball, or crossfire. Sorry cornholers, but you need to keep that gym membership.

Those were our five tenets, but we didn’t stop there.

It’s not a sport, just because...

1) It’s in the Olympics. This is a HUGELY popular argument, mainly because it’s the one that seems to offer the best hope at legitimacy. But consider this: the Olympics are run by the International Olympic Committee, a group of world delegates tasked with preserving the traditions and rituals of the ancient Olympic Games, while at the same time ushering in positive change and enforcing standards of conduct. At its roots, the Olympic Games were created to bring people together and to put on a show, and that’s exactly what they’re geared for today. Just as the eighth century BC Games featured competitions that weren’t sports (combat drills and chariot riding), the 21st century Games do as well (riflery, skeleton.) Pomp and circumstance rule the day when the Games come to town, and any activity that is popular enough around the world (and that will provide entertainment) could get voted in. Plus, let’s face it, if the Olympics were our sport-barometer, things like lacrosse, baseball, and rugby would be included. They aren’t, but figure skating is. Next.

2) ESPN broadcasts it. Three words: World. Poker. Tour. If you aren’t on board with that argument, chances are you’re the person that suggested first-person RPG's be added to the Summer Olympic program. And if you knew what first-person RPG’s were without looking at that link, chances are you just proved my point.

3) A lot of people do it and love it. This isn’t so much an argument, as it is a reason why a lot of people might get up in arms over a debate like this. NASCAR is perfect example. Every year, millions of people pack raceways to watch short guys in coveralls turn left at really high speeds. It’s known as one of the most curiously popular phenomena in our country, and if I had any faith at all that racing fans read blogs, I might be worried for my safety for even suggesting that this spectacle isn’t a sport. But here’s the thing: just because something is popular, doesn’t mean it’s a sport. If it did, we’d be including things like the WWE, which is more Broadway than anything else (where outcomes are predetermined and grown men in Speedos writhe in pain after getting fake-chopped.) We’d also probably need to include competitive eating (which, to me, is almost the polar opposite of a sport - or at the very least a sworn enemy), billiards, and Twitter. Yes, NASCAR is popular. You know what else is popular? Watching porn. Sicko.

4) YOU Couldn’t do it! I’ve found that this is the go-to claim for fans of luge/diving/curling/anything that takes a ton of technique but that very few people would ever even want to do. It’s true, I can’t steer a metal coffin down an icy tube at breakneck speeds, and I can’t jump off a two-story platform into a body of water without making splash. But then again, I also can’t operate on a brain, land a helicopter, or birth a baby out of the vagina I don’t have, but that doesn’t make any of those strenuous activities sports.

So ladies ‘n gents, that’s the list. It’s airtight. It’s righteous. It’s complete.

Stuff that makes the cut, even though they seem kind of lame? Dodgeball, ultimate frisbee, and polo. Exclusions that are most likely to get me shot in the parking lot? Golf, NASCAR, Horse Racing, golf, pro wrestling, and golf. But that’s the risk you run when you deal in hard truths like these. You can’t please everyone, but you can be fair. We believe we were.

It’s been awhile since I’ve spoken with Dave, but I might just reach out to him with this one. I know he still works for the Y, still runs sports programs like a bawse, and still hires teenagers who probably wear flat-billed hats forwards and love to watch MMA. Perhaps he could use this list, or at least use it to resurrect his own.

Either way, courtesy of the hard-working slaves at JOURNEYMEN, I think it’s safe to say there’s a new authority in town. Now please excuse me while I go give this to Percy so I can watch his brain explode.


By: Reed Domer-Shank
JOURNEYMEN Founder and Head Gavel Banger

And featuring:

Pickford
JOURNEYMEN Content Developer and Notorious Pillow Thief

Nutshocks and Jameson: Why I Didn't Watch the NFL Draft

Ok, so right away I need to admit that the title of this column is a bit misleading.

What it should say is “Why I didn’t watch MOST of the draft”, but that would be a lot less catchy and most of you probably wouldn’t have cared. Some of you are probably thinking to yourself “I actually STILL don’t really care.” If you’re one of those people, let me say how sorry I am that you’ve contracted that disease that forces you to click on links against your will, or to read e-mails that automatically pop up in your inbox.

I know there isn’t a cure yet, but trust me, together we can beat this thing.

I did, in fact, watch the first round Thursday night. It’s a good thing too, because otherwise I’d have missed the passing of the “league’s biggest knob” torch from Eli Manning to Andrew Luck.. I would have also missed seeing how Tampa Bay safety Mark Barron is basically a bizarro Theo Huxtable. And of course, I would’ve hated to miss that special moment between Dontari Poe and Roger Goodell, where their 30-second embrace and subsequent awkward gaze into eachother’s eyes may as well have been accompanied by dancing unicorns and cartoon hummingbirds.

I also was able to see the Bengals’ selections of Dre Kirkpatrick (a corner from Alabama) and Kevin Zeitler (a guard from Wisconsin). Neither were sexy picks (Dre is character-deficient and Zeitler’s a pasty-faced guard), but both could be starting on Day One. That’s a solid first-round haul for a playoff team, regardless of the fact that Zeitler’s a scumbag Badger and Dre couldn’t fit his hat over his dreads.

But after Thursday night’s festivities, I did something I can’t remember ever doing, which was completely tune out. I could blame my negligence on the hard week I had at work, but there are about 50 of you reading this that would justifiably call me on that BS. I could also cite the fact that this year’s draft had a new format, so my internal sports clock was a little askew. None of that really factored in though. In truth, there’s only one thing to blame for my total lack of vigilance on one of the most important football weekends of the year.

The Tough Mudder.

Most of you are probably familiar with the Mudder, or at least cognizant of the fact that it’s all the rage these days to pay an assload of cash to run a race that makes you feel extremely bad about yourself. Basically, similar to a marathon, the Tough Mudder is a super long race where a ton of people train for weeks to spend four hours making their insides weep. However, most marathons don’t require jumping over fences, slogging through mud on your elbows, and basically pretending to be a runaway slave. The Tough Mudder does all these things, and much more. It’s a grueling test of will, a hell-fest of physical torment. It’s something that none of us will ever forget.

Especially the people who ran it.

That’s right jackalacks, this guy didn’t exactly feel like paying two-hundo to jump into a freezing cold koi pond or get his gibblets tased by a bunch of hanging wires. Instead, I did what any sensible almost-thirty-year-old would do, which was load up a backpack of Miller Lite and Jameson and start pounding at 9:30 AM. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The race was Saturday morning and located about two hours north, so some friends and I met a couple other friends at a cabin and they brought some of their friends, and pretty soon we were all friends and everything was really friendly. But seeing as it was the night before the race and all the runners were nervous about their impending castration, Friday night was pretty low-key. Relatively speaking, at least. People like myself, my lady-friend, and a few others who weren’t running definitely found time to toss back six-to-eight beers, shots of cheap/weird liquor, and several bags of chips. Enough, apparently, to make me completely forget about Rounds 2 and 3 of the draft, which eventually made me want to kick myself in the face.

Saturday, however, was even worse. Granted it only featured rounds 4-7, but the Bengals have had a lot of success in those rounds in recent years. Pro Bowl-caliber players like Geno Atkins, Domata Peko, and Robert Geathers, to name a few. Yet, trapped in a drunken haze, I simply just forgot. I’ll tell you how, and then you tell me if you blame me....

For some, the morning started around 7:30 (and from the overall tone of this column I’m sure you’ve already guessed that I wasn’t included in that group.) While the runners and approximately half of the supporters (the half that were, ya know, actually supportive) were up and bright-eyed, eating Powerbars and bananas and whey, I lay in bed wondering whether the chocolate covered pretzels and double-stuffed oreos would fit in my bag. After all, I was anticipating a full-on tailgate situation, so sacrificing food or booze in the name of backpack space was absolutely not an option. These are the questions that ran through my mind as I lay half-asleep, waiting for all the ruckus outside my door to cease.

Eventually it did, which meant all 12 people who were devoted enough to leave the house before 9am had piled into cars and were off to shake hands with destiny. I took this opportunity to roll over and wait for someone to wake me up, which is my standard M.O. when there’s something someone wants me to do, but I’d rather be sleeping. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Lady Child came into our room and spoiled my fun by rummaging through her suitcase and making comments about how my cumulative nightfarts had left the room smelling like the inside of a tonton. It was like 9:30 at that point, so there was little use in resisting.

After filling up on eggs, bacon, sausage, and probably an illegal amount of mimosas, my three compatriots and I broke camp around 10:30. Our car consisted of Kate (fiancee’ of a runner), Ben (fiance of another runner), and me and Jen (planning to get schwasted.) The race’s start time was 10:00, but we assumed this meant “get there, straggle around, sign in, take pictures, get pumped” was at 10:00, meaning the race would actually kick off closer to 10:45.

All the festivities were held about 10 minutes from the Pocono Raceway, so that’s where all 17,000 cars were parked. Runners/spectators were to be shuttled over by the fleet of school buses, which was important for two reasons. First, the shuttle over to the Mudder entrance opened up a world of accelerated pre-game possibilities. And second, even though everything was like four seconds from the house, none of us could seem to grasp a hold of how to get there, so we spent a good 20 minutes driving along the main drag, spotting yellow buses, all obviously headed in one direction, in an attempt to “feel” our way to our destination. Sitting shotgun, I made it my main duty to yell out “BUS!” every time we saw one, as if the huge yellow vehicles were invisible to everyone else.

If you were a bottle of champagne deep, you’d probably do the same thing, because stuff like that always seems extremely helpful when you’re slobber-knocked.

After finally arriving, boarding, and spending the bus ride drinking Jameson out of a water bottle, our four-person strike team touched down at the race’s entrance around 11:30. Immediately, we were confused.

Thousands of people were right there in front of us. Milling around, stretching, eating, guzzling beers. Racers who started at 8:00am limped by like they’d been hit by a forklift. EMT’s were buzzing around on golf carts, wearing Oakley’s and pretending to be important. Spectators like us were hiking around aimlessly, sucking beer out of Camelbaks.

It was all very disorienting.

So, after being herded through an entry gate (where we showed our ID’s and signed like five waivers in case we drowned in mud puddles or were hit by shrapnel), we decided our best course of action would be to post up at one of the 20-something obstacles toward the end, so we could catch our heroes as they ran by. Without having a map or the wherewithal of sober people, we decided this plan was basically foolproof. (Little did we know, the four supportive supporters who had arrived hours earlier found a way to follow our runners almost step for step from obstacle to obstacle, making the four of us look like giant dushkus.)

Luckily, the obstacle we had in mind wasn’t more than 50 yards away. It was a huge wooden structure, the finale of the whole race, where runners had to run through and get zapped by hanging electrified wires. Hopefully I don’t have to explain why this was appealing.

For the next two and a half hours, we were privy to what had to be some of the best entertainment the Tough Mudder had to offer. Being that the race hosted thousands of runners throughout the day, we were treated to a steady stream of tired, wounded, smelly, and sometimes ridiculously-dressed people whose only goal was to stagger through the final obstacle on their way to freedom. It doesn’t take a mathlete to figure out that weak/vulnerable goofballs getting zinged by wires plus dozens of drunken spectators equals hours of loud and semi-inappropriate hilarity.

Even during the lapses in the action, where the voltage gauntlet sat empty and waiting for another wave of victims, the four of us stayed busy. Jen, as she’s often prone to do in times of substantial alcohol imbalance, took it upon herself to do something that she’d end up hating herself for in the morning. Usually this involves beating people in chugging contests or engaging in spontaneous slap fights. But Saturday she decided to test a theory that her, Kate, Ben and myself had been hatching all morning.

Basically, as funny as the scene was in front of us, it didn’t appear that anyone was really getting shocked THAT BAD. I mean, sometimes a girl would run through and let out a little yelp. And yeah, at times big meatheads would hurtle through and bellow out obscenities. But I’ll be damned if anyone really got thrown off course or knocked to the ground, which obviously was what everyone was rooting for. So being the naysaying contrarians that we were, we took it upon ourselves to encourage everyone that jogged warily to the entrance, usually yelling out things like “IT’S NOT EVEN ON” or, for the jacked guidos, ‘STOP BEING A F%CKING WEENIE.” Obviously there was no way for us to know if we were right or wrong, but it didn’t hurt to yell out random encouragement or advice, seeing as we weren’t the ones who paid the consequences.

That all changed though when the stocky female EMT on the other side of the gauntlet (the one that had been glaring at us for exposing their fake-ass electric scare tactic) challenged Jen to try it herself. Now, I like to think that if someone simply told my wife to go run through a muddy shock-zone for no particular reason, she’d decline (note: she probably wouldn’t). However, this lady was crazy like a fox. Instead of goding us, she instead just asked that jen run out into the middle and grab a shoe that was bogged down in the muck. Even in my precarious state, I recognized this to be entrapment immediately, but Jen was basically FUBAR at that point (and I’m pretty sure a part of her wanted to be included in all the fun), so she readily accepted. I’m almost certain that what happened next changed the fortunes for our forthcoming team of runners.

My loving and graceful wife dashed through the obstacle in record time and with reckless abandon, basically making the whole structure look like a sham to the onlookers, and sending the lumpy pony-tailed EMT into a stinkpot of embarrassment. She apparently wasn’t to be trifled with, however, because the next time someone lost a shoe, she extended a similar challenge to Jen. Already muddy and blown up with confidence, Jen obliged.

Now, perhaps we were all too drunk to pay attention to much of anything (or, just as likely, none of us were trained electricians), but it was clear that they had teased up the frequency on that bad boy, because Jen basically got her shit rocked. Had she been more sober, she probably would have felt the effects more immediately, but she continued to run through like a banshee, causing the crowd of onlookers (Team Lazyass) to erupt in cheers. It worked out fine for Jen, who could barely feel her extremities anyway, but I’m sure it didn’t help our team of champions, who would soon come around the bend.

All of our crew ended up coming through the final challenge safely, as it turned out. But pretty much all of them felt the effects of what I would then refer to as Jen’s heroics.They emerged a bloody, muddy, beaten and broken crew. But they emerged to tell the tale, which was more than I can say for those of us who didn’t run it (except for those jerks that got there early, took pictures/videos/memoirs, and made us look like kumquats - hey guys!)

By the time the day at the race was over, so too was my will/desire to do anything but chase the elusive brown out. The evening in the cabin was one huge boozefest, a night-long campaign that was pretty much totally staffed by myself, I’m told (Jen had taken multiple naps by seven o’clock and was hungover by 8:00).

It wasn’t until Sunday morning, where I could barely open my eyes and/or roll over in bed without ralphing, that I realized the draft had come and went. The Bengals had pulled off their third excellent showing in as many years, pulling in a haul of game-ready playmakers.

As we rode home (Jen drove, as there was no way I could even see the road, let alone legally operate the vehicle), I read up on the Bengals picks. Guys like Devon Still and Mohamed Sanu, who look ready to contribute immediately. Or Orson Charles and Brandon Thompson, who might have fallen for whatever reason but could pay huge dividends down the line. It felt weird to be reading about these guys days later; it felt like I let someone down. But I took comfort in knowing that even though I didn’t get up early, or take any pictures, or make any signs, or really do anything at all that could be considered productive, at least I still sacrificed for our friends.

In my own way, I paid my dues that weekend. And even though it may be hard for anyone else to understand how stuffing my face, sleeping in, and getting hammered (all before the View came on) could be considered a sacrifice, I missed the draft. And I never miss drafts.

I’m not saying what I went through was harder than eating mud and getting your nads zapped, but then again I’m not saying it wasn’t. Missing one of the biggest sports days of the year wasn’t easy.

In fact, I’d say it was pretty damn Tough.

Reed Domer-Shank

JOURNEYMEN Founder and Day-drinking Enthusiast