You know those videos they used to show us in high school about adolescent boys going through puberty? Well, this is the adult version of those about full-grown males entering middle age. No one ever told you about adult puberty in school so you had to look elsewhere for guidance — like this video, for example.
Starring:
Barry Bostwick as Bob
Bennie Arthur as Mike
December 24, 2014
Festive holiday greetings to you, my dearest friends, future McConaghey, Adell Dazeem, the sons of both Mumford and Anarchy, past McConaghey, and all my bros, brahs, boos, and baes,
I found myself rushing to finish ye annual note as I’ve been otherwise preoccupied with cleaning all the Jell-O pudding pops from my freezer. In fact, I almost pulled it altogether due to the biting references I included to Kim Jung Un, but as we’re past them now, I decided it would be acceptable to send.
For ‘tis the season to Keep Calm and Open Carry On as we vape the residue of 2014 precipitating upon us. Where did the time go? December has shown up unannounced not unlike a U2 album in our iPods. In fact, the whole year stings of surreality. Did the Ferguson Police dump an ice bucket on top of Joan Rivers and then launch her into Gaza or was that just a vivid dream I had that night I went heavy on the sriracha sauce? It’s safe to say, my 32nd year on this planet (of course, my time spent aboard the space station is another note for another time) was a time to remember.
It was a year of discovery as I found out which “Gilligan’s Island” character I am (“Ginger”), which spice I most resembled (also ginger), what’s the best city for me (Atlantis), and what my birthstone says about my personality (“supreme jackass”);
a year of conclusion as my lawsuit against the Golden Panda Chinese restaurant finally reached a settlement — I received no money up front, but they did promise in writing that a short stranger will soon enter my life bringing joy;
and a year of accomplishment as I completed my latest script, a remake of the comedy classic “9 to 5,” entitled “8 to 7-ish and Every Other Saturday.” [smiley face]
But mostly, my experiences were as scattered as the choreography in One Direction’s act. Early in February, as the Polar Vortex smacked me around like Solange Knowles in an elevator, I ventured to Sochi for the XXII Olympic Winter Games where I lucked out by securing a room with a working roof, but the thrill of victory soon dissipated as I could not help but notice all the stray dogs walking around. The only event that interested me was the tug-of-war on my heart strings, and I gave in to magnanimity.
I rescued one pooch whom I named Vlad and took him home with me. And the new living arrangement appealed to him. . . for about 24 hours at which point he invaded my neighbor’s apartment, and peed in the crock pot filled with her famous Chicken Kiev. Needless to say, it has made our regular Cards Against Humanity game nights in my building quite awkward.
With spring now sprung, my concerns turned from chicken stock to my portfolio of stocks as the NYSE, that fickle foe, shifted along with public favor and suddenly, it was all about the bass, ‘bout the bass, when here I was, betting the farm on treble. I foolishly ignored the first rule of shrewd investment and did not diversify, thus causing a conscious uncoupling with my savings. [frowny face]
But as Taylor Swift reminds me every day, I chose to “Shake It Off” by turning my bankruptcy into a bankruptunity! And I took time for some domestic travel, hopping in my classic 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera and heading east where I got to see my friends in New York City . . . from the George Washington Bridge on which I was stuck in a governor-sized traffic jam. (Cars for days, son!) Fortunately, traffic was alleviated when all the GM cars were recalled and I, a hundred feet from the off-ramp, was forced to walk the final stretch of road.
The adversity awakened the force inside me and I resolved to run my first marathon. It was quite the undertaking; I had to hire the volunteers, solicit sponsors, find a 26.2-mile course that was both challenging and appealing — why, just filling out the license forms from the city was a Herculean task in itself — and it would have gone off without a hitch too had I remembered to market it to the runners. But has it not been said many times that failure is merely the Secret Service of success? [winky face]
And now, looking ahead to next year, I’m primed to take my career to new heights by optimizing my search engine, reshaping my sustainable organizational structure, branding my synergistic solutions, and, most importantly, downloading emojis so I won’t have to type out words in brackets any more. Baby steps, baby steps.
To all of you and all of yours (whoever and whatever they may be and however they may have found their ways into your possession), may your Internet be hacked and infected with the cyber virus of prosperity and happiness for 2015.
Yours patiently awaiting Saint Nicholas,
Andy Wasif (a.k.a. Adlee Waifish to Mr. Travolta)
December 24, 2013 11:53 p.m.
Knock Knock.
Who’s th–
POW! You’ve been punched out with holiday cheer and good will!
To all my dearest, old friends (both tenured and vintage) and new acquaintances including Carlos Danger, Pope Francis, George Louis Alexander, and of course, the NSA (who are not on my mailing list, but are reading this anyway),
I wish you a secular and nondenominational, inoffensive greeting during this most hallowed and joyous time of year (should you choose to find it hallowed and joyous).
As I sit here on this yuletide, stoking a yule log in my hearth and simultaneously noshing on the culinary yule log while nestled comfortably underneath my framed photo of Yul Brenner, it dawned upon me that this is my tenth annual holiday note to the masses. The swift passage of time has left me at a loss for — what do you call that? — unit of language which functions as a principal carrier of meaning composed of one or more morphemes. I took at it as an opportunity to partake of the quiche of nostalgia and, via my TARDIS (I rented one as an outright purchase seemed obtuse), I engaged in “Throwback Thursday” (though it is only Tuesday), reviewing the swath of memories a decade has provided. It was like binge-watching my life.
I chortled at 2004, the year I had my name legally changed to Wa$if, bellowed at 2006, which was adapted into the movie “A Madea Holiday Note,” guffawed at 2009 which was actually penned by another scribe as I was embroiled in a contract dispute, and cackled at my 2010 appearance on the popular reality program “So You Think You Can Dance With the Stars” and my attempt to sidle up to Olympic skier Lindsey Vonn only to get leveled by her bodyguards. (My neck still hurts when there are sharknado conditions which happen more often than any self-respecting film major would care for.)
As for the past 365, I can only imagine what synonym for “laugh” they will conjure. It certainly has seemed quite the roller coaster what with the smaug desolation and constant candy crushing, though we did manage to avoid the widely-predicted zombie apocalypse, which was quite a relief for me particularly, as I have a history of undead in my family (though book sales for my travel tome “101 Places to See After You Die” were predictably lackluster. Such is the price of writing for a specific demographic.)
June, in particular, was quite challenging for me due to an ill-advised twerking accident. The pain came to me like a wrecking ball and I yelped. . . giving it only two stars as it should have a warning label listing potential physical harm and an attack on good taste. (Unfortunately, I had to pay for therapy out-of-pocket due to a pre-existing condition from last year’s planking accident. Had I only waited a few months for Obamacare to kick in. . .) Fully recovered now, I am ready to enter BEAST MODE!!!. . . or beauty mode, whichever is less strenuous.
Creatively, it was a banner year for writing as I came up with such pithy fare as “Everything Must Go” for outside of mattress stores and “Come to Happy Hour for Drink Specials,” tailing airplanes over beaches.
Alas, I was forced to shut down all business for a time. Apparently, my inability to come up with a budget left me unable to reconcile my meager earnings with my exorbitant spendings. Fortunately, my insolvency was not terribly noticeable as I borrowed enough to live on. I’ll let my children and my children’s children deal with it as I have greater issues on my plate such as why are children allowed to have children of their own?! The very notion of it sickens me, though that could be the recalled poultry I bought on sale for Thanksgivikkah as part of their Duck Dynasty promotion.
I still managed my annual sojourn abroad this year as the Living Social travel deal I came upon was simply too good to pass up (without reading the “terms and conditions” to which I readily agreed). I spent 39 glorious days in the transit zone of Moscow’s airport where I immersed myself thoroughly in the culture indulging on their authentic cuisine of vodka lattes at the Starbucks and the mcgoulash patty from their McDonald’s.
Upon my return, October featured some very heavy emotional times as I learned somewhat auspiciously that I was not, in fact, Woody Allen’s son. The bombshell came as somewhat of a shock to me, but not nearly as much as it did to my parents who have been telling me I was for years, in spite of their names on my birth certificate.
All in all, if I’ve taken anything away from 2013, it was the teachings of Rob Ford, the great Mayor of the great state of Toronto, who showed that no matter how unqualified you are, to remain steadfast in your beliefs, even in the face of fierce resistance and common sense. And conversely, if things are going great, you should voluntarily and without reason change them up, just to mess with people, like Yahoo! mail.
May unmanned drones rain down upon you in targeted strikes of happiness and health, inflicting unspeakable prosperity.
Yours truly,
Andy Wa$if
Here’s my updated acting reel. It’ll be in a constant state of flux from here on out as I get more acting gigs. Check it out here.
Dear Coachless Football Teams,
I understand your frustration in hiring a new coach to run your on-field product. The top college coaches aren’t interested and you have trepidation about some of those who have done it before, the Ken Whisenhunts, and the Lovie Smiths, and the Lovey Howells of the world. Hence, I’d like to take this opportunity to throw my hat into the ring.
Hey, Norv Turner remained the head coach of the San Diego Chargers for six years! You really have nothing to lose in calling me in. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for the lunch we have together. You like Thai food?
I know what you’re thinking: I don’t have any experience. True, but what I lack in experience, I make up for with snappy answers at my press conferences.
As for qualifications, where do I begin? I am a former Monday morning quarterback, with over 30 years of experience chastising coaches for moves that, with the benefit of hindsight, seem incredibly stupid. I have a very good record of pointing out what should have been done after the fact.
I am a badass, but a player’s coach. To wit, I run my practices like a drill sergeant, but allow my players who display exceptional effort on the practice field to earn coupons for “one free back rub and tub soak.”
Each day, I am the first one to arrive and the last one to leave the facility. (Though I do require an eight-hour lunch/siesta in the middle of the day. Genius needs its rest.)
And I demand that my players will have the best endurance in the league. I’m like Michael Douglas in ”Miracle.” (Or was it Kurt Russell? Y’know, I shouldn’t get them confused, but I do.) I don’t run two-a-days, I run three-a-days. And every practice is in pads. In fact, I require my players to wear pads 24-7, even on off days. They can only take them off when they shower.
From a strategy point-of-view, I can tell you that a prevent defense doesn’t prevent anything. So I won’t use it. A prevent offense, however, I use almost exclusively when in the red zone. It helps to reduce turnovers close to the goal line which always sap a team of much needed momentum.
In this formation, when the ball is snapped and the offensive line drives the defense into the end zone, the quarterback hands the ball off to the running back who then scampers all the way down to the other end of the field wasting valuable time the defense would otherwise have to get the ball back and tie the game after we punched it into the end zone. I got the idea from a recent rousing game of ”keep away.”
Defensively, I am just as adept at confusing the opposing team. Cover-2? Yeah, too weak. I use the cover-11 and drop everyone into coverage.
I don’t carry a punter. The game has four downs and I like to use them all. Punters just take up a roster spot. So I usually carry a fourth quarterback. Tim Tebow will not be one of those four quarterbacks. I see him more as a down lineman type in my scheme.
”Game management” is my middle name. When the ball is in our quarterback’s hands with a minute thirty or less, that’s when we’re at our best. We play the entire game as if that were the case. The hurry up offense has never been as fast. The second the center gets to the ball, he’s told to snap it backwards, whether the quarterback is ready or not.
Sometimes I put all four quarterbacks on the field at the same time and get the defense to try to guess who’s going to get the snap.
I’m versed in the pistol, shotgun, run-and-shoot, hit-and-run, pick-and-roll, the wildcat. I also have perfected formations known as the musket, laser, Shangri la, and the Mississippi midnight mosey. (The last one is a dance step, but I have a feeling I could integrate it into the offense seamlessly.)
I’m known for the sheer volume of times I employ the on-sides kickoff. It softens the receiving team up until they don’t expect a long kickoff.
The types of players I am most fond of are tall and lanky wide receivers, that run a 9.0 80-yard dash or faster. (I don’t believe that a 40-yard dash can adequately gauge a person’s speed and I believe that running them 100 yards is useless as there’s no purpose for that type of distance in American football.) Someone like former NBA star, at a height of 7’6” Shawn Bradley would be ideal for my pass plays.
My cornerbacks need to have loose hips and tight necks. So they can only stare at what’s directly in front of them but can constantly change that point of view.
Did I mention I am a tireless workaholic? I watch film constantly. For instance, I just finished “Argo.” It was breathtaking. I’m considering running a few plays like that.
I even write my own cheers for the cheerleaders. ”One-two-three-four, we’re not gonna pass no more.” It’s actually my way to call the play to our quarterback. (The one flaw is that if the other team realizes it’s not a real cheer, we’re in trouble.)
I grow my mustache like Andy Reid, spit when I talk like Bill Cowher, wear a fedora like Tom Landry, a sweater like Mike Ditka, and a hoodie like Bill Belichick, all at the same time. My nickname is, in fact, ”Bum.” According to ancestry.com, I am 1/128th Harbaugh.
On a side note, I am an amateur horticulturalist. What do I grow? I grow Bill Parcells Coaching Trees in my greenhouse.
”Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing,” was Coach Vince Lombardi, the man for whom football’s ultimate trophy is named. ”Winning is something that isn’t nothing” is mine. I live it, I breathe it, I want it etched on my tombstone.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m good with soundbytes too. ”If we score more points than the other team, we will win the game.” ”I can’t have a bunch of guys peeing themselves in the middle of a playoff game.” ”Exhibitions are for museums!” Those were all gems I’ve uttered at one time or another.
I mentioned the press conferences earlier. They’ll become must-see television. Great fodder for the media and we all know the fans love an engaging coach as much as they love a winning team. Look at Jacksonville, there can’t be any other reason to continue watching them.
And not to step on the toes of the marketing department, but I have just four words to throw out to you — ”Fans Suit Up Day.”
So, in conclusion, when you’re trying to decide on a has-been using techniques that retired when Slingin’ Sammy Baugh did, consider that the game is changing. It’s about staying one step ahead of the curve. Getting the other head coach to lose focus for just one second as he drops his clipboard in stunned disbelief to say, ”What the –?!” as my offensive line goes into a choreographed riverdance as a new twist on the fumblerooski.
My hire will generate interest, much more than any one of a slew of standard-issue coordinators-cum-head coaches, and that’s what you need. We may even win a game or two. Well, as long as Cleveland is on the schedule.
If this opportunity should not pan out, I would also consider a job in concessions where I have several years of experience. The hot dogs have to be kept at a minimum of 125 degrees, otherwise, they will turn green. That doesn’t make them taste bad, per se, just different.
December 24, 2012
@Dearest friends, hobbits, Big Bird, Honey Badger, homophobic chickens, and the 47% of you I know are going to read this no matter what,
#Whatayear! I refuse to concede that it’s over. It went by in an instagram, just a flickr. So much transpired, much of it incredibly pinteresting, such as the *asterisk* replacing italics. In fact, 140 characters cannot even begin to describe the meme that was 2012, an affair that I attended clothed magnificently in Gangnam style dress of just more than four dozen shades of grey.
And assuming you are reading this now — SPOILER ALERT! – we are still alive! The Mayans proved their prognostications to be more skewed than those of a Romney pollster, a predicament that proved both bitter *and* sweet, for I chose to engage in carpe diem — a spicy Argentine fish dish I came upon through Epicurious — and hence chose to max out my credit cards. Boy, is my face red. . . matching my bank account.
The new resolve did however spur me to attack my bucket list, first moving to curb my hoarderism by cleaning my apartment. Oh, the things I came upon, including six of the ten buckets on said list, my binder of women, my bayonets, the decade-old prototype for a “Touch Me Elmo” doll, and a cache of mislabeled “Livestrong” bracelets. (The “v” was missing so, as luck would have it, I will be able to use them after all.)
When I reminisce on the year, the visions dance about with tapouts, copouts, knockouts, brownouts, obnoxious louts, acrimonious shouts, and bailouts. Bailouts especially in Europe, as for much of year, Greece was the word, the word that we heard. From the blue moon into the summer nights all the way to one evening I spent stranded at the drive-in followed by tears on my pillow straight up until Sandy showed up much different than we expected, the Old World home of democracy kept me engrossed with their economic discord. The whole ordeal felt so cinematic, and made me want to sing for some reason.
A defining moment of my activity came early summer when I fell prey to the proverbial June swoon, captivated by one lady’s bottomless charm and nonrefundable grace. Yes, I finally redneckonized what was already gospel — Honey Boo Boo was, indeed, a national treasure. So I became a redneckluse to devote my time to watching her on television until my friends intervened, getting me to redneckonsider my admiration. It was then I redneckoned the entire display was nothing more than a pain in the rednecktum. I came away from the experience a better person, if not more brain dead.
Shortly thereafter, I embarked upon a spiritual awakening, eschewing the hustle and esswallowing the bustle in favor of calmness and serenity, discovering the Zen buried deep inside me (during a routine outpatient surgical procedure). I took to meditation, walks in nature, and soothing soaks, even utilizing bath salts to relieve my troubles. . . until I was booked for assault on my neighbors which caused me more trouble. Admittedly, I was negligent for not reading the label on the bath salts that warned against eating them.
As reparations to my reputation, I volunteered to join the neighborhood watch committee and was quite the vigilant provider of security. . . that is, until the incident. I believed, erroneously, as it turns out, that all clothes dryers had a protection mechanism that would allow them to shut down in the case of a legitimate fire, but alas, I was wrong. And on one of my bimonthly trips to the laundry, the act of leaving my clothes in the dryer (having lost track of time as I frolicked in the fields), needless to say, caused me to burn many britches.
Though I was removed forcibly from all future meetings, I was impressed to learn the committee head Mr. Eastwood kept addressing my empty chair which curiously managed to sway his opinion on several key proposals.
As autumn arrived, and I in need of a respite, I did manage to squeeze in my annual sojourn (how journ was it?!). Though short in duration, I managed to visit such historic sites as the Fiscal Cliffs and the Petraeus Falls, even spending one day in Pennsylvania along the Jersey Shore, its waters lapping the banks of Philadelphia.
Of course, the election cycle played a major role in my focus as it drew more confrontational than a cross-country flight with Alec Baldwin. Taking my naturalized voting rights seriously, I made a difficult choice after much rumination, eventually casting my ballot for the one candidate I felt best represented my equanimity and sagacious thought — Team Edward. Though I know not all of you would agree with me, remember, it is our difference of opinions on such important matters that makes this country great.
And so as we go “All In” to the new year, with the passion that Paula Broadwell conducts a no-holds-barred biographical interview, I conclude my primly proper prose whilst enjoying the one-of-a-kind vocal stylings of Michael Buble emulating Harry Connick Jr. covering a Frank Sinatra yuletide classic by wishing each and every one of you a 2013 unlike any other 2013s. May your Ding Dongs and Ho Hos be abundant leaving your Twinkie and Sno Balls full of happiness.
Sincerely yours,
Andy Wasif
Featured Image by: Stuart Miles
As we engage in a season of cold weather tailgating, roasting one Mr. Chesterfield J. Nutz over the open fire, along with brats, dogs, and wurst — and is there anything wurst than the New York Jets offensive ineptitude? — we barrel toward the beloved festival known as capitalism’s greatest trium– er, Christmas!
It’s that time when temperatures are low and Dwight Howard’s free throw percentage is even lower, when Santa does a check down on his list, perhaps calling an audible for those last-minute developments mussing up his BCS (Big Claus Shopfest). (Santa has the sports package on his dish so he’s in the know at the North Pole.)
From the usual historic moments to record-setting performances to unnaturally enhanced performances to memorable blunders and self-inflicted goofs that have left us entertained, offended, perturbed, and beholden to our idiosyncratic whims, it’s certainly been a year for the fan.
Thus, it is an unenviable task he has this year as the world of sports was once again flush with compelling storylines, dynamic heroes, and reviled villains. Though even the vilified might receive a gift as Santa believes it is better to give than to lead the league in receiving yards.
And decked out in crimson, this Saint Nick, not to be confused with Nick Saban, will soon take to the skies to deliver to all that which was earned in the year that was. On board his sleigh this year, he has stocked these items for the following people:
“Clipper Darrell” – Your rightful place back in the Staples Center to see LA’s best professional hoops team.
Jeremy Lin – A TexMex-flavored reboot of Linsanity.
Jon Vilma – A better excuse.
Saints Bountygate – Helmet-to-helmet contact.
Jeremy Shockey – A tight end relocation program in case he was the one that ratted out the Bountygaters.
Curt Schilling – A redo in the gaming world.
Austin Collie – A desk job. It’s safer.
Albert Pujols – A better start.
Junior Seau – A solid legacy and some inner peace.
Magic Johnson – All the batting practice he wants.
The Los Angeles Dodgers – A thank you note from the Boston Red Sox.
Andy Reid – a fresh start.
Alex Smith – a starting job somewhere as he’d probably make a pretty decent starting quarterback.
Scott Pioli and Romeo Crennel – a better year, in every conceivable way.
San Diego Chargers fans – Whoever the opposite of Norv Turner is as their next head coach.
Cole Hamels – A five-game suspension where he actually misses five starts.
Andy Pettitte – Ginkgo biloba so his memory comes back to him.
Ozzie Guillen – A job coaching Fidel’s national team.
Derek Jeter – A Groupon for Jenny Craig.
Tiger Woods – A meeting with the old Tiger Woods. Maybe he can learn something about winning.
Timothy Bradley – A win in a match he clearly gets outboxed. (He got that gift early.)
The Replacement Referees – The knowledge that their horrendous pass interference calls live on.
The NBA – A new slogan: “NBA Action – It’s broken and we fix it.”
The NFL – A change to the rules stating that if you throw a challenge flag on a play that was going to be reviewed anyway, you will be not be penalized and it will still be reviewed.
Penn State University – A lot of mouthwash to wash that taste out of your mouth.
Olympic Spoiler Alerts – You’ll get your gift in five hours.
Augusta’s Women – Women’s restrooms.
Lance Armstrong – A lifetime supply of “Livestrong” bracelets with the “v” etched out which feels more accurate.
The 8th place finisher in the last dozen Tour de France races– A medal. Gotta figure he was the top clean finisher.
Lebron James – A new monkey for his back.
Stephen Strausbourg – Another 40 innings.
Detroit Tigers Third Base Coach Gene Lamont – A stop sign.
Tim Tebow – Anything he wants… er, well, except a starting job, of course.
The New England Patriots, Green Bay Packers, and Detroit Lions – The extra win they deserve.
The San Diego Chargers – Oh, what the heck, you can get another win as well since you probably only gave up 28 yards on 4th and 29. Of course, you realize how inept you were for letting it even be that close.
Shortstop Yunel Escobar – Eye black with the Spanish slur for Yunel Escobar written on it.
A-Rod – A cushion football fans use when sitting on the bench.
Shaun White – A lifetime ban from hotels.
Chipper Jones – A peaceful retirement where he can go back to his given name — Andruw.
Adam Greenberg – At least one more big league at-bat, this one against someone other than the knuckleballing Cy Young Award winner.
Melky Cabrera – A better excuse.
Derek Fisher – A new line of work now that flopping has been outlawed.
Mike Brown – The “death stare penalty” sentenced to Kobe Bryant in response to Kobe’s “death stare” at his former head coach.
Kobe Bryant – A huge party where the other guests are NBA players and coaches he’s publicly called out and ridiculed over the years. There will be clowns and a caricature artist and a piñata. (Three guesses who the piñata will be.)
Pablo Sandoval – Kung Fu MVPanda.
Felix Baumgartner – A souvenir photo of his death-defying jump, like one of those snapped on a roller coaster.
Miguel Cabrera – Three crowns.
Mike Trout – An MVP to go with his ROY.
The New York Marathon – Another chance to run the 2012 marathon in 2013.
Johnny “Football” Manziel – Three more years to play like a freshman.
The New Orleans Pelicans – Nothing. This was just an attempt to get used to their name… Nope. Can’t get used to it.
Dwayne Wade and Ndomukong Suh – Soap.
Dale Sveum – A bright orange jumpsuit so Robin Yount recognizes him from the birds.
Justin Verlander – A win in an important game.
Andrew Luck – Well, he certainly doesn’t need any luck so he gets just a little more seasoning.
Peyton Manning – Another Super Bowl win to put a little space between the number of titles he has and the number his brother Cooper has.
Tom Brady – Another Super Bowl win to solidify his place in history.
Jon Gruden – A coaching job so that he may bring his energy and enthusiasm out of the broadcast booth and into the locker room.
The San Antonio Spurs – $250,000 to cover their ridiculous fine for strategically resting players.
David Stern – A time machine to bring him to 2014 so that he can retire already allowing the NBA the chance to regain the legitimacy and dignity it lost spectacularly under his tenure. Heck, he can go as far into the future as he wants.
NHL – A year off. You’ve earned it after going so hard these last seven years.
Bud Selig – A title that has eluded him his whole career: “Best Commissioner.”
Miami Marlins – A new stadium so you can start drawing fans.
and lastly, Bobby Valentine – Another job with a major league team, preferably one that requires him to repeat the words, “Peanuts here!” over and over again, something he may be able to handle without embarrassing himself. The operative word is may.
And after his task has been completed, Santa will then disappear along the horizon, these words echoing soundly behind him, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a fair fight,” preferably one finally between Manny Pacquiao and Floyd Mayweather.
Happy Holidays, everyone!
Featured Image by: Feelart
There was a time when the typical fantasy of a red-blooded American male was Phoebe Cates dripping wet handling a carrot. “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” being over a quarter century ago, those same men would now be quite content to have a durable top-flight running back, a swarming defense intent on stripping the ball, and a quarterback with a great interception-to-turnover ratio. These are the stuff of dreams.
Yes, those same testosterone-laden men (and some laden with extra testosterone, like Melky Cabrera) are all about the fantasy football now. You wait all year for this, study your charts, listen to the experts, alienate family, ignore friends, only to have your efforts derailed early on from a bad draft position or a freak injury. (My first pick last year was Jamaal Charles. Nuff said.)
So what’s your strategy? It depends on what type of league you’re in. Is it a keeper league? Do you make bids? Are you totally on board… unless you can’t pick Tom Brady? Does your league allow you to pay after you pick? Are you planning to not pay if you don’t get your first choice?
Regardless, the draft is just the beginning. You’re the general manager. You need to be up on the news. Rosters need to be in ten minutes from now! But your best player is “questionable” to start. What the heck does that mean?! You need to know!!! Will he start?! Dammit, that’s the question!
This has become our national pastime. The fanatics are now even more fanatic. As players, it’s not enough you have to help your team win, but now you have to do well individually. A win on the field could still be a loss for some random guy in Omaha (as opposed to the specific guy in Omaha). Talk about increased pressure!
At the recent Pump Foundation dinner, raising money for the Northridge (CA) Hospital to support the fight against cancer, I caught up with a few former gridiron greats and asked what they thought of the fantasy phenomenon.
“It was amazing to me,” says Hall of Fame wide receiver Tim Brown, “cuz I had some of my good golf buddies back in Dallas who were fantasy players and when I would come home in the offseason, they would be mad at me. I mean, literally, they’d say, ‘Dude, all you had to do was run out of bounds at the one-yard line, and Tyrone Wheatley would’ve scored and I would’ve won the game.’ And I didn’t know what was going on til I found out they were playing fantasy football.”
He doesn’t play himself because he’s a busy man in his “retirement.” “I would love to,” says the former Heisman Trophy winner. “Y’know, I started out about five or six years ago trying to do it and I just haven’t had the time to do it.”
The theme comes up again when talking to “Broadway Joe” himself who also complained of the time commitment. “I was involved a couple of seasons ago,” says Namath. “I really wanted to make it work, studying, getting help and all that. And what I’ve learned is I have to admire the people who are involved because it takes passion to take that much time in to study the athletes and their games, and keeping up with the week to week, and making the deals and all.”
But he had no problem memorizing the playbook week in and week out? “Well, yeah,” the former Super Bowl III guarantor explains, “but that was when you were living it. So the fantasy game has just added a wonderful time for fans and participants of fantasy football.”
Would he have picked himself in the first round? “I don’t know. With a bad knee, it depends.” Another questionable!
Then there’s the flip side. Former three-sport star and Baseball Hall of Famer Dave Winfield doesn’t even concern himself with it. “I don’t follow it at all. I know it’s a big thing, but don’t follow it at all. AT ALL,” he says again for emphasis, utilizing his broad smile.
Meanwhile, one of the players who was consistently a lock to be an early-round pick pondered not even being an option for the fantasy players. With the Olympics just ended, Marshall Faulk had his own fantasy.
“If I could’ve gone back and done it all over again,” the recent inductee to Canton began, “I would’ve come back and probably played table tennis and badminton, or — I don’t know what the gymnast is called with the little string, but that looks fun too. It has a name. i don’t know what that’s called. We’ll call it that.”
I imagine he would’ve been a Hall of Famer at that, but he’s not so confident. “I would’ve be graceful. If my knees would’ve been a little better, I would’ve been good.”
So my fantasy is now this… I get a top 3 player at all the skill positions, they don’t get hurt, have career years, and I’m able to withstand all challenges to win my league. But I know that at the end of the day, it’ll be just that, a fantasy, and I’ll be left with Darren Sproles as my top tailback and Mark Sanchez, who will most likely be benched for Tim Tebow in Week Two, with my arch nemesis having the foresight to pick him up before I can.
It’s going to be a long season. Why isn’t it called Nightmare Football instead?
Andy Wasif’s “Red Sox University” (Triumph Books, 2009) will be mentioned in “501 Books Baseball Fans Must Read Before they Die” by Ron Kaplan (due out in April 2013). Ron Kaplan reviews books and interviews authors for his site Ron Kaplan’s Baseball Bookshelf.
Presumably “Red Sox University” will be among the top 501.
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