FOOTBALL HEAVEN

Finally, I could breathe.

The fan horde rushed by me, stampeding down the rows and scaling the gates, and I felt my muscles relax. A sea of scarlet had consumed the field, enveloping the players and covering every bit of green until it was one big, teeming mass - and all I did was watch. And breathe. And relax, knowing what I THOUGHT I knew all along.

See, even for fans, a college football season can be grueling. In a sport with ever-increasing parity and turnover at the top, no lead is ever safe. And in a system where a cluster of computers rules all (like some kind of nerdy dictatorship), every game is of paramount importance. Therefore, watching Ohio State culminate their historic rebound from NCAA purgatory with a victory over its most hated of rivals was as much a relief as it was a joy. 

And, it confirmed a few things in my mind.

First, OSU football is back, and no amount of NCAA BS can hold it down for long. Second, Urban Meyer is clearly an angel sent from Heaven to restore OSU to greatness (and he’ll eventually subject every SEC team to many Januarys of Chinese water torture.) And third, That School Up North will win a few games here and there (seemingly in order to preserve what little parity is left in the greatest rivalry in sports), but Ohio State is now primed to continue it’s decade-long dominance of its Northerly neighbors.

These are the things I realized after watching Saturday’s glorious battle at the Horseshoe. They’re the honest, plain truths that will keep me safe and happy and warm throughout the winter, even as the icy winds of a Buckeye-less bowl season pound against my windows. I’ll hold onto them tight, as meaningful as any bowl game or postseason accolade could ever be. 

But as important as the 2012 Ohio State/Michigan game was for the program (and historically), it also carved out a permanent place in the soul of this fan. Whereas every other year I’ve enjoyed The Game on a screen, this year I was lucky enough to witness it in its true form. 

OSU beating UM is glorious from any angle, to be sure. But to witness the glory up close, to be a part of it, well that was Football Heaven.

I’m now ready to move forward with my winter, content to lord over those dirty heathens up North for another year and to bask in the warm glow of Urban Renewal. However, for those of you who just aren’t quite ready to end the celebration, I figured I’d share some of the more unforgettable aspects of my voyage into the Buckeye Promised Land. Things I never would have known, had I not made the trip. 

Before we all close up our football shops for the winter, let’s relive this special win one more time, together.

1) It was really, REALLY cold. My wife and I spent about six hours outside Saturday, and the whole time it felt like we were in the eye of a Norwegian blizzard. At the mid-morning tailgate, Jen spent most of her time by one of those outdoor fireplaces, clearly the creation of a nearby Mensa genius. I, in turn, hovered over my case of Natural Lights, trying to decide which would make me freeze at a slower rate: pounding beers, or not taking off my gloves to open the beers I wanted to pound. Inside the stadium was better, but not by much. The wind was swirling in the South Stands, so I was forced to alternate between jumping up and down to maintain my blood pressure and checking on my lady-friend who stood next to me. She was bundled up to her eyes in a dense combination of eskimo coats and alpaca scarves, so it seemed necessary to periodically put my hand under her nose to see if she was still breathing. Luckily, as it turned out, we both survived and emerged with our appendages intact. Jen’s eyes eventually stopped glazing over and, upon closer investigation, my dingus had not in fact turned purple (contrary to what I was sure I was feeling during the third quarter). But I’ll never forget the feeling of standing on those bleachers, shivering and stomping our feet so they wouldn’t go numb. With the snow falling and the Horseshoe rocking, it felt like the Big Ten in its truest form.

2) The city was alive. I’m an Ohio State fan, so I know Ohio State fans are crazy. But as we made the 20-minute trek through the city to the stadium, things were on a different level. Music blared from High Street storefronts at 9am. College students in t-shirts stumbled past us, hammered from their kegs n’ eggs adventures and relying on muscle memory to get them wherever they were headed. And as we closed in on the stadium, the celebrations and the buzz seemed to get more dense, more electric. Carrying a case of beer on my shoulder, I repeatedly received high-fives and fuck-yeahs from the throngs of fans that were spilling out of front yards onto the sidewalks and into the streets. We passed the Varsity Club on Lane avenue, and it could have been 1am. The speakers were pumping out a Lil’ John remix that could have been heard in Indiana, and hundreds of drunk, middle-aged superfans danced in the street. Things only intensified as we turned a corner and Ohio Stadium came into view. Every grassy area was covered in tents. Smoke from a thousand barbecues hung in the air. It was my first big game, and my first OSU tailgate, but damn if it didn’t feel like home.

3) The stadium is a sight to see. This may be the single biggest difference between watching a game from home and actually being there. Your TV gives you all sorts of angles in crystal clear HD and all kinds of intelligent commentary from Rhodes scholars like Matt Millen and Mark May. However, it really only shows you one thing: the game. Sure, you’ll get shots of coaches or the band or an especially raucous section of fans, but nothing compares to being able to look around and take it all in for yourself. Flags from each Big Ten team flapping in the wind at the stadium’s highest points. The “Block O” leading the stadium in cheers. The dozens and dozens of recruits, huddled on the sidelines in their letterman jackets. There was so much to look at that I often had to remind myself that, out on the field, we were once again hammering the rat-weasels from up North.

4) The student section is not for kids. There was a time when I could party like a fiend. I’m talking duct-tape-champagne-bottles to-my-hands-for-breakfast kind of stuff. However, that golden age is currently a speck in my rearview mirror. These days I’m lucky to not be yawning by 8:45, and I usually require a 5-Hour Energy in order to take out the trash. That’s why it was kind of a culture shock to watch the game smack-dab in the middle of Ohio State’s student section. At any given time, there would be a girl falling off the bench in front of me, a guy drooling nacho-juice onto my sweatshirt behind me, and three shirtless dudes in a “who can make ‘FUCK YOU MICHIGANNNN’ sound the most creative” competition to my left. And even though I had had four beers (something I was kind of proud of, being that it wasn’t New Year’s Eve), I quickly realized that four beers is what most of these kids pee onto the quad before their Monday class. In short, when I wasn’t dodging projectile vodka-water bottles and ear-muffing my wife, the student section made for an amazing game-watching experience.

5) Jim Tressel will always be loved. Saturday was one big flurry of emotions. Sheer joy when Adolphus Washington forced a fumble. Crippling nausea when Retard Robinson scored a TD and did his “look at all the yogurt I can eat ” routine. Premature ejaculation when they showed Urban Meyer smiling on the jumbotron. The most poignant of moments, however, came when most of the country was in the bathroom taking a wiz. Between the first and second quarters the 2002 National Championship team was honored, and the scene on the field quickly turned into a Jim Tressel lovefest. The former players hoisted the Vest onto their shoulders, the crowd chanted “Jim! Jim! Jim!”, and everyone in the stands who wasn’t black-out drunk seemed to get caught up in the moment. Sure, Tressel made a mistake. Sure we could be playing for the National Championship if his adopted son (Terrelle Pryor) hadn’t felt the need to stencil his initials all over his arms. But if anything was proven Saturday afternoon, it’s that JT will always be a hero in Columbus, if for no other reason than that he made us proud in November every year against the piss and blue. And honestly, that’s all that matters.   

6) The Michigan band is really bad. You know when you’re at a minor league baseball game and it’s the seventh-inning stretch and you’re talking to your friends and then eventually you realize that there’s been a middle school handbell choir performing for the last ten minutes? That’s kind of how it felt in Ohio Stadium when the Michigan “band” put on their halftime “performance.” Not only could we barely decipher any sort of melody for eight straight minutes, but there also seemed to be no rhyme or reason associated with where the musicians were deciding to walk. It was like the UM band director had recruited 75 blindfolded three-year-olds. The only redeeming quality of the whole debacle came when the drum major held up a giant sign that said “I LIKE TO HAVE SEX WITH TREES", which may or may not have been imagined during one of my several bored daydreams. (Seriously though, these guys were putrid. I’ve authored better performances in my office bathroom).

7) The Ohio State band is really good.  As horrifyingly bad as the scUM band was, that’s how fantastic the OSU group was. They were loud, they were in-sync, and (gasp!) we could actually tell what songs they were playing. So glaring was the dichotomy between the two outfits that, at one point, one of the 8,000 village idiots in my section stood up and screamed “LOOK HOW CRISP THOSE LINES ARE! SUCK IT MICHIGANNNNNNNNNN!” He then proceeded to puke on his own shoes, but by that time his point had been made.

8) There’s a kid that runs out and picks up the tee. I‘m sure this is not an Ohio State tradition. Nor is it that important in the grand scheme of The Game, or even that memorable at all. In fact, there’s a good chance I’ll forget about it tomorrow after I’ve eaten my afternoon pudding. However, one hilarious part about being in the stands and not at the mercy of the television producers was watching the toddler who somehow got the honor of running out and picking up the tee after kickoff. Despite the fact that this kid had to have been like two-years-old, and despite the fact that he was bundled up tighter than Randy from A Christmas Story, he managed to sprint the width of the field after every kickoff and retrieve the kicking tee, always to a wild cheer from my jackal neighbors. This got me thinking: how did this ankle-biter procure such a prestigious job? What if he tripped? What if the return man was really fast and trampled him like Mufasa? Or, what if he did what pretty much every small child always does, which is completely mess things up and/or make everyone miserable??? Shouldn’t they give these jobs to mature, flexible, well-proportioned adults who aren’t required by their moms to wear seven layers of woolen army gear? I mean, I’m not saying IIIIIIIII want the job, but if Urban Meyer were to call me and say “Hey we need to do a better job on this tee retrieval thing, so suit the fuck up and bring the juice” I would at least have to check my eligibility.

9) The hate was palpable. As a child growing up in Ohio, you know you have to hate Michigan. You have no other choice. You don’t go there for vacation, you refuse to travel there for work, and by God if anyone with a Michigan license plate so much as goes 66 in a 65, you yell "RAPE!!!" as loud as you can. So, leading up to Saturday, I was ready to get my hate on. I was prepared  to boo at every possible juncture, to tell Retard his dreadlocks make him look Denarded, and I even packed a few poison ham sandwiches in hopes that I’d end up in the general vicinity of Brady Hoke. But DAMN if I wasn’t outdone. Apparently, at The Game, any excuse to boo and curse ANYTHING with the color blue is perfectly acceptable. I’m pretty sure the Michigan trainers got hotdogs tossed at them. The cheerleaders got verbally abused. And of course the band got hammered, but that turned out to be perfectly reasonable due to the fact that they sounded like an eight-minute underwater fart. Like I said, I’ve always hated Michigan (and always will), but Saturday took that hate to a new level. From now on, as a tribute to all the lifelong friends I met in section 327, every time I watch a Buckeye kickoff at home I’ll end the “O-H-I-O” chant with a resounding “RIP HIS F%CKING HEAD OFF!”, and then look around for something to throw.  

10) The celebration. As someone who’s lived away from his hometown for the last 11 years, trust me when I say there is NOTHING like celebrating with your own kind. So often, Jen and I are forced to watch our teams in relative silence, to exchange lonely high-fives as the rest of our world couldn’t care less. But when the final whistle sounded Saturday, when tens of thousands of fans rushed the field at a dead sprint, all of that was forgotten. Seeing guys like Zach Boren making the rounds amongst the fans (handing out fist-bumps and head-nods) and Devin Smith attempting to bang out cadences with the drumline, it just felt natural. Like everything had slowed down and was now exactly where it needed to be. Again, it felt like home.

Chances are it will be awhile before I get back to The Game. The tickets, like any other tickets to something that millions of people want to see, are often ridiculously-priced (this year’s came in the form of an amazing wedding gift). In fact, I may never see another. Its a privilege that not everyone gets. One that took nearly 30 years to find its way to me, and could take another 30 or 40 or more to find its way back. However, like so many Sports Tattoos, Saturday will always stick with me. Years from now my ticket stubs will be yellowed in their frame, the numbers on my jersey will be cracked and worn, and the barf on my hoodie (I can only hope) will be long since washed away. Saturday will remain though, and it will feel like yesterday.

It was the day I truly understood the rivalry. 

It was the day I came home.  

It was the day I went to Football Heaven.

Reed Domer-Shank
JOURNEYMEN Team Captain and Buckeye for Life

WE'RE GOING STREAKING! The Week 11 JDL Recaps

In the beginning, I thought I was in love.

Granted, I always love my fantasy teams, mainly because I’m easily one of the smartest dudes I know and my ideas are always amazing. But this year it felt different. I’d drafted what I thought were three stallions at running back, I had two lightning-in-a-bottle receivers, and my QB was doing Subway commercials before he ever took a snap. This love, unlike so many others in the past, seemed True.

Unfortunately, things aren’t always what they seem.

If Mitch “The Godfather” Martin taught us anything, it’s that True Love is hard to find. In fact, sometimes you think you have True Love, and then you catch the early plane home from San Diego and a couple of nude people jump out of your bathroom like a goddamn magic show, ready to double-team your girlfriend.

That’s basically what happened as soon as this godforsaken league began. I got home, tossed my keys in the bowl, and suddenly the rest of the league showed up at my door in track suits and said they were “here for the gangbang.”

In fact, the story of my season aligns pretty perfectly with the plot of Old School. For the whole first act I was stumbling around, spilling coffee on girls’ crotches and trying to run naked through KFC drive-throughs. Meanwhile, my team stood there in the kitchen smoking a cig and assuring me its heinous indulgences were “purely sexual.” (Oh yeah, team? You’re “REALLY sorry?” Well sorry isn’t good enough! SAY SORRY TO THE BABY!!!)

Miraculously, my fortunes recently began to turn. Maybe it was when I sold Matt Forte to Drew for a bag of smelly nickels, or maybe it was when Stephen Jackson realized the object of football was to score touchdowns and not sit on the sideline polishing the other teams’ helmets. OR, maybe it was when I did a complete 180, moved into the dead professor’s house on campus and started having Snoop Dogg parties on my porch.

None of that really matters though, because the last few weeks have been pure bliss. It’s like instead of Antonio Brown running around with his shoe-strings tied together, I’ve got Weensie throwing massive pancake blocks. Instead of Brandon Lloyd sitting cross-legged and picking dandelions, I’ve got Abdul , who narrowly escaped an arranged Bangladeshi marriage and is now crushing ass on Thursday night mixers. And finally, instead of Brandon Pettigrew ambling around like a blind donkey, I’ve got Scott Chandler, who managed to establish six Speaker Cities without being able to read and is currently doing whippets off the floor.

That’s right suckas, my team is balls deep in victories right now. We’ve gone from being the mayors of Retardville to a non-exclusive egalitarian brotherhood where community status, and more importantly AGE have no bearing whatsoever. Unlike weeks past, nothing excites me more than looking toward the future, where, incidentally, I see Joseph “Blue” Polaski. He’s the recent recipient of a brand new plastic hip, and goddammit if it he doesn’t look glorious.   

Now, without further ado, I give you the all-Old-School weekly recap...

The JDL - Week 11 Match-up Recaps

Coples Therapy (Jake) -vs- IpoopNurSoup (Brent) - Jake’s tussle with Brent was kind of like Frank the Tank’s steel cage death match with Andy Dick. Brent only had one win to his name, and it happened to be against Jake, so the big fella came creeping into this match-up looking for revenge. Unfortunately, Brent deployed the under-used “Crouching Tiger Hidden Penis” maneuver, choking Jake with a towel and crushing his brain with a frying pan. Yes Jakob, last place teams are all fun and games until they prematurely pop in your face. It stings. And it’s why you now have a lazy eye.
IpoopNurSoup (2-9) - 87
Coples Therapy (7-4) - 78

Cromartie’s Kids (Howard) -vs- Revis&Buttheads (Elise) - Attention Howard: At this point, you may be asking yourself “why am I holding this 30-pound cinder block in my hands?” You may also be asking yourself “why does this cinder block have a long piece of string tied to it?” And finally....why’s the other end of that string tied securely to your penis? The answer, Howard, is trust. Do you trust that Elise won’t pound you like cheap escort, the way she’s ravaged every other team in this league? Do you trust that the Bears’ defense won’t return 14 picks for touchdowns in the first quarter alone? Well Howard, unfortunately your cinder block did not fall harmlessly to the turf. Not this time. No, your cinder block sailed straight through the manhole cover, taking your johnson and your season with it. Your chances of finishing anything higher than 9th are now severely compromised, and there’s a great chance you’ll be working part-time at Red Lobster for the rest of your life. Walk it off big guy. Wasn't s’posed to work out this way.
Revis&Buttheads (10-1) - 89
Cromartie’s Kids (3-7-1) - 67
 
YouGotChunted (Chunt) -vs- you already know (Jen) - This one basically writes itself.  Out of all the fictional characters this world has ever known, not just in Old School, but in the history film, theater, or literature, none come close to being as perfect for Chunt as the mulleted petting zoo guy. And as terrible as Jen’s team has been (starting guys like Pierre Thomas and Ben Tate regularly), she might as well be walking around her backyard drunk and in a robe. In keeping with that analogy, Jen started Emmanuel Sanders at her flex spot, which was the fantasy equivalent of shooting herself in the neck with a high-powered Mexican tranquilizer dart. Chunt didn’t really have to do anything at all except watch as Jen stumbled around, slobbered a little bit, and then dragged the whole table of gifts directly into the swimming pool.
YouGotChunted (10-1) - 86
you already know (2-8-1) - 61  

Wrinkled Brown Stars (Spaz) -vs- NoVA Bath Salts (Don) - Things are getting pretty sad in NoVA-land. At 3-8, Don is now at the point where he’s barely putting up HALF the points he’s projected to get. My man had three guys in his lineup that put up ZERO points and one guy that put up just one. I assume it’s only a matter of time before he funnels seven beers, gets kicked out of his house, and shows up on my doorstep with a used breadmaker as a housewarming gift (It’s got three speeds!). Attention Don: get ahold of yourself. Remember the Frank Ricard that used to kick ass and take names with guys like Jimmy Graham and Stevan Ridley? I know he’s in there somewhere. Take the restrictor plates off the goddamn Red Dragon and let that bitch loose, before it’s too late.
Wrinkled Brown Stars (5-6) - 74
NoVA Bath Salts (3-8) - 43

Gem City Juicers (Drew) -vs- THE MACHINE (Tim) -  Drew’s the Dean Pritchard of the league. He’s short, he’s angry, and people routinely stuff him into trash cans. And when he poached my first round draft pick (Matt Forte) to take on his division rival Tim, it was like bringing James Carville to a college debate. Unfortunately he was completely blindsided when Tim blacked out, put up like a gazillion points with Andre Johnson, and started expounding on the globalization of corporate innovation. Matt Forte had no answer, Drew sat there blinking , and Tim emerged as the victor. I imagine he’s currently somewhere smashing chairs into lockers and yelling “THAT’S THE WAY YOU DO IT! THAT’S THE WAY YOU DEBATE!!!”
THE MACHINE (6-4-1) - 137
Gem City Juicers (5-5-1) - 103

Yo Soy Siesta (Reed) -vs- Urban Achievers (Glen) - This was Glen’s big moment. His team had spent all season nailing the Everybody Dance Now dance routine, and he was now positioned perfectly for the playoffs. All he needed to do was beat me, but instead he let out a loud LET’S GO COUGARRRRRRS and jumped directly onto the bottom half of the flaming hoop. His dumb suit engulfed in flames, I watched as Glen sustained third degree burns and effectively eliminated his squad from contention. The most troubling aspect of all of this, however, is that with every Glen loss, it becomes more and more unlikely that he’ll pay his ##&^$%$#^$#& league dues. I fully expect to at some point accept his debt in the form of goods or services. Perhaps I’ll allow him to be a waiter at one of my parties, and encourage my guests to verbally murder him for not putting enough ice in their lemonade. Or, maybe I’ll just dress him up as an elephant and make him lumber around the backyard. “GLEN! What the hell are you doing??? Put your head back on! What’s that? The suit is crazy hot?? Don’t sorry me, babe. You’re better than that. AND FOR GOD SAKES, SHAKE YOUR TAIL WHEN YOU WALK.’”
Yo Soy Siesta (6-5) - 78
Urban Achievers (5-6) - 63

That’s all for now folks. Have a great Thanksgiving, and be sure to tune in next week, where I’ll be slashing prices on everything from beepers to DVD players.

Reed Domer-Shank
JDL Commissioner and the Successful, Disease-Free Gentleman Standing by the Mini-Bar

MICHIGAN WEEK.

Back in early August, a friend and I were talking college football and, knowing my allegiance, he courteously asked for my personal prediction on how Ohio State would do in Urban Meyer’s first season.

My response was succinct: “Anything less than 12-0 will be a disappointment.”

Not surprisingly, my friend chuckled. Like most college football fans, he was used to this kind of bluster from a Buckeye. And, to be fair, I predicted a similar scenario last season, right before Luke Fickell led us into the fiery hell of Mordor and left us to die.

However, anyone who knew anything about Ohio State and the Big Ten in general at that point might have said the same thing. The conference was almost certainly headed for a down year, and OSU had Braxton Miller and Urban-F*cking-Meyer, which really seemed like it might be enough.

Flash-forward to today.

Ohio State is 11-0. Despite my preseason prediction (and despite the fact that I’m currently writing a blog on the topic) I am, in many ways, at a loss for words. They’ve won games where Indiana scored 49, where Kenny Guiton had to lead a comeback, and where their fullback led the team in tackles. And most recently, they won a game where Brax couldn’t run for first downs (inconceivable!).

In short, everything has fallen into place thus far, which has only strengthened my belief that the Urban Meyer Affect is the single greatest asset this team has going for them (besides of course John Simon's raw animal magnetism). A game hasn’t gone by where I questioned Meyer’s ability to WILL his squad to victory. It’s not something that’s easily quantifiable (short of just citing his pristine win/loss record), but it’s something I’ve sensed since day one. And it’s something that I think will be on display in five days when the Michigan Wolverines visit Ohio Stadium for what is the most highly-anticipated version of “The Game” since 2006. In his first taste of sports' greatest rivalry (as head coach), I fully expect the Urb to carve out his place.

Early on Friday, the wife and I will be heading to Ohio for all the festivities. It promises to be one of the more cathartic sports experiences of my life, and it’s something I’ll cover extensively on JOURNEYMEN next week. But first, a few things from the thrilling overtime win at WIsconsin that propelled us into this Michigan Week on a high...

1) Ryan Shazier will be a first round draft pick. It’s physically painful to think about where the Buckeye defense would be without Shazier. Conversely, it makes my special parts tingle to think about how good this guy can be as he matures past his sophomore season. I’m no NFL scout, but Shazier just seems like the perfect weak-side linebacker prospect. He’s tall (6’3), he’s quick, and he hits people with a brand of violence not seen since the days of Malcolm Jenkins. If you need proof, go back and check out his goal-line thump of Montee Ball Saturday, which simply added to his Big Ten-leading tackles for loss total. ATTENTION BENGALS: draft Shazier in Round 1 in 2015, and just constantly run the “Send Ryan at the QB like he’s shot out of a cannon” play that OSU currently runs all too infrequently. The dude will get there and leave a trail of tears behind.

2) John Simon will not be selected high, but he’ll have a long NFL career. If you didn’t know better (and I’m not sure I do), you might have thought John Simon smoked bath salts before the Wisconsin game. I mean, I seriously thought he was going to eat someone’s face off. That’s how hard he brought it. On each of his four (four!) sacks, Simon treated double-teams like beaded curtains and left confused/deflated lineman questioning every decision they’d ever made. He’ll never be the tallest guy, or the quickest guy, or the most physically gifted guy on the NFL pitch. But put him at the 3-4 rush end position, tell him the quarterback sassed his sister, and watch him hunt the MF-er down. There will never be a player that prepares harder or a player who goes harder when the whistle blows. That attribute alone (and not necessarily his telephone pole-sized forearms) has secured him a spot next to Matt Wilhelm, AJ Hawk, Malcolm Jenkins, Beanie Wells  in my top five Buckeyes of all time.  

3) Despite Simon and Shazier, we still can’t stop the run. Let me say this: I have NO IDEA where the Buckeyes rank in the Big Ten (or nationally) when it comes to rushing defense. If you told me it was middle of the pack, I’d believe you. If you told me it was down in the cellar sandwiched between Wofford and San Jose State, I’d believe you more. All I know is it hasn’t been good when it matters and, let’s face it, THAT’s what matters. I can distinctly remember the days (mainly because it was only like three years ago) when Ohio State’s defense rarely allowed a running back 50 yards in a game. Let alone 100. Let alone the 170-ish that Montee Ball wracked up Saturday. I spent so much time saying the word “gash” during the first half that it started to not even sound like a word. (As in “how are they GASHING us like this?” or “JESUS they are really GASHING us aren’t they??” or “OK GUYS IT MIGHT BE TIME TO STOP PLAYING LIKE A BUNCH OF GASHES!!!”) Michigan does not have the rushing attack that Wisconsin does. If they did, we might be in trouble.

4) Wisconsin provided a nasty little blueprint. I’m not an experienced enough observer to know why the passing game couldn’t get going Saturday. Perhaps it was the receivers’ inability to get open. Perhaps it was Brax not seeing the field. Or, perhaps the Wisconsin corners were just that good. Regardless of the cause, the result was that Fat Bret Bielema became comfortable allowing more than one guy at a time to spy Miller at the line of scrimmage. Subsequently, the Braxton Miller we’re all used to (and, frankly, the Braxton Miller that has single-handedly won us most of our games) was nowhere to be found, and the result was a really fun couple hours of Puntpuntpuntpuntpuntpuntpuntpuntpunt. I might give a pinkie toe to prevent Brady Hoke and TSUN from seeing that tape.

5) But I won’t, because it actually doesn’t matter. I THOUGHT I believed it before. That is, that Urban Meyer’s allure would fend off any upsets. That his presence alone would propel this team of underachievers to stardom and into the OSU history books. I THOUGHT Urban Meyer would not allow his team to be beat. Not this year. Not his first season, when the conference was weak, and when the anti-OSU media army was waiting for any reason to pounce. I thought all of that before, but I wasn’t sure. Now I am. If you were to tell me in August to pick one game on the schedule that Urban would DEFINITELY win, I would have picked The Game. Because Urban Meyer, unlike some coaches (JOHNCOUGH!COOPERCOUGH!), totally gets it. He grew up in Ohio and has salivated ever since at the prospect of beating the balls off the maize and blue. More than the recruiting classes, more than the culture change, more than the possible undefeated season, Urban’s first crack at The Game will define him as an OSU head coach, and he’s always known it. Now, he gets to face a Michigan team that’s without it’s top running back, that’s hurting at quarterback, at the Horseshoe, with no bowl game and with an undefeated season on the line.

Prediction: Urban Meyer’s team will stomp on Michigan’s throat this weekend. They will pound scUM like every other Urban Meyer team has pounded its rival in the past. It will not be close. And I can’t wait to see it happen.

Ohio State - 41 Michigan - 17


Reed Domer-Shank
JOURNEYMEN CEO and Legitimately Scared of John Simon  

Doing the Opposite. The Week 10 JDL Recap

Oftentimes in life, we get what we want when we least expect it.

Like the recently-dumped girl who meets her soulmate in the ice cream aisle. Or the guy who learns about his promotion just as he’s cracking the company porn firewall.

Or, like yesterday, when I brought a brand new box of Nutri-Grain bars to work and the fucking prison mouse that lives in my desk ate them all. He wasn’t expecting his Monday to end with a special feast, but that’s exactly what happened.

I think that’s one of life’s best qualities, really; the ability to continually catch us by surprise.

Even if it does sometimes manifest itself in the most aggravating way possible.

Take this week in fantasy, for example. I had finally thrown in the towel. With a 4-5 record, an injured Antonio Brown, and Steven Jackson/Brandon Lloyd unable to find their own assholes let alone the end zone, I made the tough decision to put up the “closed” sign. After trading Jason Witten a few weeks earlier, I put the sealant on my coffin by sending Matt Forte, my first rounder, to my own brother.

Immediately, Yo Soy Siesta’s marching orders became: insert the stiffs, endure the losses, and hibernate until next year.

Well, wouldn’t you know it. With a roster featuring three new waiver wire acquisitions, the lollipop guild went out and put up 93 points, shattering its previous record of 84. (Which, for those scoring at home, is about as impressive as Taco Bell upgrading their meat quality from triple-F to D+.)

Just like George Costanza in one of the greatest Seinfeld eps of all-time, it was only when I reversed course and did the exact opposite of my normal practice that I saw any type of positive return.

So, just so you know, from now on I’ll be wearing velour jumpsuits to work instead of ties. I’ll also be ordering shellfish at all restaurants, getting all my friends thoughtful Christmas gifts, and trading my truck in for a helicopter. Now please excuse me as I download every Nicki Minaj album and order a Browns jersey.

The JDL - Week 10 Matchup Recaps

Coples Therapy (Jake) -vs- NoVA Bath Salts (Don) - Don’s team is like the Coolidge College basketball squad from Van Wilder. For the entire first half they’ve been getting blasted up the A, so much so that even the deaf coach can hear the boos. However, Don must have channeled his inner-motivational-Van this week, because his boys followed halftime with a 134-point nuclear explosion. I assume he told Jimmy Graham he needed to be more of a Windex Man on jump balls (I NEED YOU SHINING GLASS) and Stevan Ridley to be on the ball like a fat kid on a cupcake. He probably then promised the whole team he’d throw a suarez if they won, while assuring Darius Miles that those freak honeys from Mount Holyoke would be there, just as long as they weren’t off somewhere humping the Matadors.
NoVA Bath Salts (3-7) - 134
Coples Therapy (7-3) - 71

YouGotChunted (Chunt) -vs- Cromartie’s Kids (Howard) - From what I can glean, this installment of Chunt vs Howie was a seven-day Cold War. All week I’d get frantic texts from Chunt. Stuff like “WTF is up with your boy Harold??? Y isn’t he responding to my trade requests?? IT’S BEEN 3 HRS!!!” Always desperate, always with an excessive amount of punctuation, always saying Howard’s name wrong. Then when I’d text Howard and ask why he was freezing Chunt out, he’d just reply with cryptic movie quotes. Stuff like “it takes more than two to tango”, or “CHUNT CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH”. I dream of someday getting these two in a room together, where Howard will bombard Chunt will legalese and Chunt will just scowl and take huge slugs of bourbon.
YouGotChunted (9-1) - 139
Cromartie’s Kids (3-6-1) - 87

Revis&Buttheads (Elise) -vs- Urban Achievers (Glen) - Without an uncharacteristic eruption from the Cowboys’ D, Glen would have ended with 39 points last week. THIRTY-NINE. I’m pretty sure Elise’s pitbull poops 39 points on his morning walk. For Glen to have any chance at all he’ll need Demarco Murray or Darren Mcfadden to get healthy like TODAY, ‘cuz Shonn Greene has about as much scoring potential as a pile of mashed potatoes.
Revis&Buttheads (9-1) - 100
Urban Achievers (5-5) - 63

THE MACHINE (Tim) -vs- you already know (Jen) - These teams are similar in that both are going absolutely nowhere this season, yet very different in the route they’ll take to get there. Tim’s team sucks because it’s full of players like Andre and Chris Johnson that will never live up to what they did in 2009, plus guys like Mike Vick and Ryan Matthews who have to be scraped off the turf more often than the Looney Toons. On the other hand, Jen’s team sucks because it’s devoid of any talent whatsoever, and it would probably get demolished by a Lingerie League team. Both Tim and Jen are aware of these sad realities, so they’ve set up their own version of the Super Bowl, to be held at our house Saturday night and composed entirely of chugging beer/pounding nachos. First one to puke wins. Multiple winners accepted.
THE MACHINE (5-4-1) - 80
you already know (2-7-1) - 57

Yo Soy Siesta (Me) -vs- IpoopNurSoup (Brent) - Brent has had the most points scored against him out of anyone in the league, and it’s honestly not even close. He’s like the Washington Generals of the JOURNEYMEN Dynasty League. Every week a new team comes to down, and every week he gets tossed like yesterday’s salad. In fact, I’ve decided the league’s last place trophy will be named in his honor. It’s going to be called “The Brenton”,  and it’ll just be an empty economy-sized can of Beefaroni with a dent in the side.
Yo Soy Siesta (5-5) - 93
IpoopNurSoup (1-9) - 69

Wrinkled Brown Stars (Spaz) -vs- Gem City Juicers (Drew) - When Drew managed to land  Matt Forte in a blockbuster deal last week, his front office staff immediately began cheering, toasting with champagne flutes, and singing “FOR HE’S A JOLLY GOOD FELLOWWWWW” in one of the luxury boxes. Then Forte sputtered to 3 points Sunday night, and it was like the alcoholic traveling secretary stood up on the bar and dropped his pants. Everyone froze, the disco record scratched to a halt, and all you could hear was Drew choking on a mini corndog.  
Wrinkled Brown Stars (4-6) - 95
Gem City Juicers (5-4-1) - 65

Make sure to tune in next week, sports fans, where I’ll attempt to trade Steven Jackson to my brother for his Popeye’s club card.

Reed Domer-Shank
JDL Commish and Future Brenton Winner

Some Choice Words. The JDL Week 9 Recap

Dear Team,

If you’re reading this, you already know. 

I’m leaving you.

I tried, guys. I really did. Remember September? When you were so down on yourself that you tried to take a boombox into the bathtub? Who was there to stop you? This guy was. Because I cared.

But this weekend I realized something. You’ll never change. NEVER. Every Sunday I’ve watched for any indication that you weren’t the impotent collection of ballsacks that everyone said you were. And every Sunday you let me down.

Well Team, today that all ends. I’m cutting you loose. But first, a few things I should have said a long time ago....

To Antonio Brown: I bought into the idea that you’d emerge as the next Victor Cruz. Instead, you’ve put up less TD’s than Penelope Cruz and now you’re at home nursing an injured ankle. I’d love nothing more than to turn your face into post-Fight-Club Jared Leto, but being that you’re a Steeler, that would probably just make you less hideous. Here’s hoping you celebrate your life of mediocrity by locking yourself in a nightclub bathroom with your quarterback.  

To Jason Witten: I can’t blame you for packing up your new kidney and relocating to greener pastures. I hear Jake’s team’s facility has weekly conjugals and a chocolate milk fountain.  Don’t worry though, I’ll be sure to honor your departure next year by drafting a tight end who juggles more balls than Jaime Pressly.

To Robert Griffin the Third: You’re my shining star. In a world teeming with blight and famine, you’re a rose growing in concrete. All I want to do is cuddle with you on a loveseat and watch Mariah Carey music videos. My only regret is that I didn’t draft Robert Griffin the Second and Robert Griffin the First. Please notify me if at any point you spawn Robert Griffin the Fourth, as I’m sure he’s already managed to beat Steven Jackson in a foot race. xoxo

And finally, speaking of...

To Stephen Jackson: I can’t even look at you without wanting to spray-paint my lunch all over the floor. I drafted you because you’ve put up weekly double-digits since the Reagan administration. This year, however, you’ve constantly invented new ways to pound my tailpipe, including getting benched for spiking a ball in frustration after NOT being able to punch in a touchdown from the one. There’s no way I would draft you next year, even if the only players left were you and the guy who narrated the honey badger video. Thanks for surrendering your job to a guy who was drafted on Day 7, and please enjoy Hospice.

The JDL - Week 9 Matchup Recaps

YouGotChunted (Chunt) -vs- IpoopNurSoup (Brent) - I’m starting to think Brent and Andy Reid made a wager to see whose team could lose more games. And I can only imagine the stakes were two backstage passes to the local Golden Corral. Pretty sure they’re both rooting for a tie, in which case they’d just take eachother. Meanwhile, Chunt continues to reap the benefits of the preseason deal he made with the devil, where he received three top-tier running backs in exchange for his cross-eyed sister-cousin.
YouGotChunted (7-1) - 108
IpoopNurSoup (1-7) - 85

Gem City Juicers (Drew) -vs- NoVA Bath Salts (Don) - Speaking of deals, Don and I have one going as well. It basically consists of trying to average more than 60 points a week, and its working title is “Save Your Manhood.” So far we’ve been successful, just as we’ve been successful in forming multi-syllable words, breathing on our own, and watching TV with no hands. Stay tuned for next week, where we’ll attempt to boil water and learn the first verse of the Happy Birthday song.  
Gem City Juicers (5-3-1) - 104
NoVA Bath Salts (2-7) - 69

Wrinkled Brown Stars (Spaz) -vs- Revis&Buttheads (Elise) - Spaz got 51 points out of Doug Martin and lost. Why? Because he was playing Elise,  who has her defense on a steady diet of spinach and cocaine. If the universe has any sense of balance at all, Brian Urlacher and Co. will take a well-earned trip to Fiji for the next four weeks and Elise will lose her automatic 30-point handicap.
Revis&Buttheads (7-1) - 125
Wrinkled Brown Stars (3-6) - 121

Urban Achievers (Glen) -vs- Cromartie’s Kids (Howard) - There’s something wrong with fantasy football when the Saints beat the Eagles 28-13 and (on the strength of one play) Desean Jackson emerges with more points than Drew Brees. Apparently Football-Jesus doesn’t care though, because Glen’s dog and pony show continues to churn out lackluster wins. (Sidenote: The best possible scenario I can imagine would be if Glen eeks his way through the playoffs, takes out his brother in the Super Bowl, and then watches as I donate his winnings to the Obama administration because he never paid the original fifty bucks. TAKE THAT, RON PAUL.)
Urban Achievers (5-4) - 83
Cromartie’s Kids (3-5-1) - 71
 
Yo Soy Siesta (Me) -vs- THE MACHINE (Tim) - Tim hates losing more than he hates being compared to Kevin James, so it’s probably good that he won this one. Going into Monday night he was down by two with only Michael Vick to play, so I’m pretty sure if he’d lost BOTH of those matchups I’d either find him passed out in the Drinker’s bathroom, or hanging from a tree with a ribeye in his hand. Luckily for him, Vick did what Vick does (put up fantasy points while simultaneously leading the Eagles to a soul-sucking loss), and Tim survived. Unfortunately, his chances at making the playoffs are still lower than the odds Andy Reid escapes town in January without a boot in his ass.
THE MACHINE (4-4-1) - 78
Yo Soy Siesta (4-5) - 63

Coples Therapy (Jake) -vs- you already know (Jen) - In Jake’s bio, I mentioned that his primary function as JDL Co-Commissioner would be doing my dirty work. Well, after Jen left an injured Jonathan Dwyer in her lineup this week, it naturally became Jake’s job to send her an unofficial warning from the league, pursuant to bylaw 9, item A (thou shalt set thy lineup every week). Attention: Jake. If there’s one thing Ms. Sweet-Sassy Molassey hates more than losing, it’s getting reprimanded, so stop whatever you’re doing and run. Get in your car, set your GPS to “Ecuador”, and just start driving. Chances are she’ll find you and you’ll end up in a hollowed-out tree-dungeon talking to an albino, but at least give yourself a chance. Meanwhile, as Co-Commissioner/husband, please excuse me as I transfer my power of attorney and make a reservation at the bottom of the Schuylkill.
Coples Therapy (7-2) - 93
you already know (2-6-1) - 82

Please tune in next week, sports fans, as I attempt to strip down and sell my team for parts like droids at a Tatooine traveling bazaar.

Reed Domer-Shank
JDL Head Boy and Founder of the "OPEN TO ANY AND ALL TRADES” conglomerate

Hunkering Down! The Week 8 JDL Recap

Captain’s Log
Stardate: 310618

It’s cold, here in the stockade. Though Sandy’s blustery winds have long since calmed, a chill still knifes through the air. I’ve been wearing the same pair of black sweats for three days now. My hair is matted and slick under my hat, and the stains of hoagies-past dot my thermal tee. My teeth need a good brushing, but nary a minute goes by where I don’t feel drawn to the growing indent on my couch. I’ve been reduced to a hollow shell of myself...and goddamnit if the beer isn’t almost gone.

* * *

As I understand it, those affected by Hurricane Sandy can be lumped into two groups. The first are those who were directly impacted by the storm. These are the folks whose homes were damaged/destroyed, who were forced to evacuate their towns, or who were actually part of the workforce of first responders who battled through the elements in order to save lives. We’ll call them Group 1. The members of Group 1 are either heroes or victims, and everyone’s thoughts should be with them.

Then there’s Group 2.

I’m a member a Group 2 (heck, I’m practically on the board), and I can tell you that pretty much all of us are complete slobs. We basically just slothed around for three days, flipping from news channel to news channel, searching for nuggets of new information on a storm that’s occurring somewhere else and comparing the breasts of the weather girls. While residents of the Jersey Shore and the Delaware beaches said goodbye to homes, we sat under afghans, watching three weeks worth of DVR’d sitcoms and eating ice cream for breakfast, because “who knows when we’ll lose power?”

With each day that passed where our city and state leaders warned us to “hunker down”, our houses got a little dirtier, our wine racks got a little more empty, and we began spending more and more time between showers. By Tuesday afternoon, most of us were so stir-crazy that we were just walking from room to room for exercise, constantly re-evaluating the placement of our flashlights.

So, if any of this is hard to understand, or (more likely) plain out sucks, it’s not my fault. Because for as long as I can remember I’ve been doing my civic duty, aka lying horizontal on my couch watching Entourage seasons and sucking down root beer floats.

OH..also...In the midst of the storm, there apparently was football being played. But being that the Bengals were on a bye, and being that my boredom drove me and the wife to drunk Jenga on four separate occasions, I barely noticed. The following is an attempt to piece together those football events (especially as they pertained to the JOURNEYMEN Dynasty League) in a semi-intelligible goulash of words and phrases. If the alacrity and wit that you’ve come to expect from these recaps never presents itself, rest easy knowing that similar to the rest of us, they probably haven’t burrowed their way out of the post-hurricane impotence coma.

The JDL - Week 8 Matchup Recaps

Yo Soy Siesta (Me) -vs- YouGotChunted (Chunt) - The glory that accompanied my dismemberment of Chunt this week is honestly hard to describe. It was kind of like when Ralphie beat the ever-loving bejesus out of Scott Fargus, except instead of crying and slobbering my way through, I laughed like a hyena on steroids. In the pantheon of unlikely victories, me beating Chunt’s Spartan warriors with a bunch of retarded hobbits has to rank near the top.
Yo Soy Siesta (4-4) - 84
You Got Chunted (7-1) - 64

Revis&Buttheads (Elise) -vs- IpoopNurSoup (Brent) - Elise (first place) dominating Brent (12th place) was the JDL's version of a Dothraki wedding. Peasants were slaughtered, slaves were raped, and cobras were given as gifts. All that was missing was a bowl full of horse heart and Brent being whisked away on a white horse by a seven-foot tall bearded man. Stay tuned for next week, where Elise will mount the world and Brent will take sex lessons from a Red Waste prostitute.
Revis&Buttheads (7-1) - 109
IpoopNurSoup (1-7) - 70

Urban Achievers (Glen) -vs- Wrinkled Brown Stars (Spaz) - Neither Glen nor Spaz has paid me their league fees yet, so instead of honoring them with a well-thought out recap, I instead shot a video of their matchup. To view it in its entirety, click here.
Wrinkled Brown Stars (3-5) - 86
Urban Achievers (4-4) - 66

you already know (Jen) -vs- NoVA Bath Salts (Don) - Yahoo is always coming up with new features, and one that the JDL will probably debut next season is called “rivalry week.” Basically, you designate one week during the season where each team faces off against its most hated opponent. There ‘s no question in my mind that Jen/Don will headline that list. And seeing as neither team has a snowball’s chance in hell of making the playoffs, we’ll probably call it the Deplora-Bowl and award the winner a bag of celery. Don and his wife are coming to visit next weekend. After his recent waxing of Jen, I fully expect all of my energy to be devoted to stopping her from dipping his fingers in hot water as he sleeps. Do not eat the scones, Don. I repeat, do not eat the scones.
NoVA Bath Salts (2-6) - 96
you already knows (2-5-1) - 74

Coples Therapy (Jake) -vs- Gem City Juicers (Drew) - The good news is that Drew now knows what will happen if neither of his running backs puts up a single point. The bad news is that he managed only 74 points and slipped 2.5 games out of first place in his division. The worst news, however, is that through eight weeks my team has AVERAGED 76.5 points, making it virtually impossible for me to mock my brother for anything beyond his Ryan Lochte-esque understanding of the waiver wire. Yes Drew, waiver priority is a real thing. Yes Drew, kickers will still be available on Thursday.
Coples Therapy (6-2) - 96
Gem City Juicers (4-3-1) - 74

THE MACHINE (Tim) -vs- Cromartie’s Kids (Howard) - After watching Michael Vick crash and burn like a Japanese war plane for the eighth week in a row, Tim said he felt like launching a D-sized battery at the Eagle quarterback’s head. And despite the fact that a Duracell to the frontal cortex may actually make Vick a MORE intelligent quarterback, I had to try to dissuade the Meat Man from this course of action. I informed him that if he were to land in jail for assault, he’d a) forfeit any chance he may have had to ride Andre Roberts (his second-highest scoring player) to a fantasy victory, and b) lose the opportunity to chase Yahoo’s “fewest points scored in a season” record, currently held by four-year-old sea lion in Alaska.
THE MACHINE (3-4-1) - 72
Cromartie’s Kids (3-4-1) - 72

Tune in next week, sports fans, where I promise I’ll get the league recaps out before Thursday. That is, unless another historic hurricane touches down. In which case, look for me to be sitting Indian -style in front of my couch, drunk off cooking wine and elbow deep in a box of Captain Crunch.


Reed Domer-Shank
JDL Foreman and Showerless Since Sunday