The Truth and The Washington State Cougars (college football amateur hour)

The Washington State Cougars:  Are you sure you still belong in Division 1 Football?

This blog is going be just as random and amateurish as the game I witnessed last night.  I offer my sincere apologies for thinking my alma mater would show up.   Actually, they did arrive exactly the way I never wished to imagine…..wearing colors representing losers. I’m supposed to be a semi-educated man.  Where is my brain when I need it the most, and why do I have any expectations for this program?

As the great Nancy Kerrigan stated, “why why why?”, I have to admit those words came to mind as I watched opening college football amateur hour last night.  WSU.  Need I write more?

I should have titled this “Set Low Expectations”  That way no one gets hurt.  “Sir, put the remote control and your bat down and step away from the T.V.”.

Last night, my wife and I were driving back to Seattle feeling somewhat hopeful.  We wished to make it back home from a business trip to watch the first, and for me last, game of our alma mater’s college football season.  Sometimes I forget, this is a recipe for a crimson and gray debacle.  We weren’t necessarily convinced that Washington State would win the upcoming game, but with a new coach and a new year, we were hopeful that they wouldn’t embarrass themselves.  Again……these are indeed low expectations.  Losing 30 to 6, against a solid team known as BYU,  even growing up a Catholic, I’m considering converting to a team which wins.  BLASPHEMY!

I’ll make this brief.  Graduating with a degree from Washington State University provides a sense of personal fulfillment.  Knowing the Cougar’s football team will remain terrifically and embarrassingly dreadful FOREVER gives me a sense of relief.  I only threw one wiffleball bat during the course of last night’s game.  Then, I reminded myself, or perhaps it was my wife reminding me of my immature behavior resembling the Cougar football team.  I officially waved the white flag at halftime, because I remembered when I cared.  Giving up is somewhat of a virtue.

Much like throwing a colossal F bomb on a golf course after you lose all your balls, it makes you feel a little better.  Then, you move on and accept you’re just not good enough to play the game.  I don’t golf anymore and my career of being phony is over.  I wish the WSU cougars could accept that fact.  My wife (also maintaining a degree from Washington State University) isn’t over it quite yet, but I have been for years accepting the truth regarding a load of boys in Pullman, Washington wishing to compete in football.  Tossing bats, cats and remotes during a college game only causes marital friction, and that’s a fact son.

Here’s the exact fact.  If you wish to root for any team in the great state of Washington, make certain you have an even greater pain tolerance for losing.   I don’t anymore, and that’s why I write softly and carry a wiffleball bat instead of the Louisville Slugger required to bash in that television screen while wasting a night thinking, just for one tenth of a second, my alma mater may succeed.

This was written with a bit of writer’s Incredible Hulk anger, so forgive me if it sounded as such, but writing is far more therapeutic than injuring a television when my skin turns green.

A little side note:  Our house guest, ironing his University of Washington Husky shirt last night, thanked me for not tackling him during the course of this epic disaster of a football nightmare in our living (and Coug dying) room.

F the Cougs.  End of Story.

Twas the SuperBowl

Twas the night before the SuperBowl, and all through the house, all creatures were snoring because they were soused.  The bottles were scattered by the chimney with despair, in hopes that St. Gambler soon would be there.

The people all passed out were snug on the floor, while prophetic visions of money pranced upon them once more.  And one dog in a ‘kerchief’ and another dog in my lap, had just settled our betting brains down, knowing soon they would get a proper betting slap.

When out on the deck, there arose such a clatter, no one could stand up to acknowledge what was the matter.  Somehow, someone managed to stagger to the window quite unclear, only in hopes to cure the hangover with a beer.

This person could not see quite clear, but he could hear a voice coming from near.

“On Tom, On Greg, On Patrick and Craig.  On Mr. Russell, oh, why must I beg?”

The voice came from a mysterious soul.  Or, it could have came from just some random A-hole.

Those beckoned were gamblers waiting for the sun to rise, but inevitably, we all knew we’d hear their cries.  The cries would begin with Madonna’s half time beating, but the cries would continue with no proper living room seating.

Most of these friendly gamblers in the room were betting on a man named Brady.  There was another stranger in the room who looked a bit shady.  This man was taking their bets with a nod, and most were certain he was just a fraud.  There were others betting on someone named Manning.  This ensured the stranger that his wife could afford tanning.

There were chips, chops and dip, a chicken wing or fifty, but to describe what happens next, can delicately be described as not nifty.

Those friendly gamblers would eventually lose all their money.  This didn’t place them at great odds with their honey.  Remotes were tossed aimlessly with no care, several gamblers fell on the floor just pulling their hair.

The stranger left with a pile of cash, and he was the only one who didn’t need it stashed. He strolled back to his house with this satchel of dough, presented it to his wife, whose name happened to be Flo.  Of course, with that name, clearly she worked at a diner, and with that money, life would certainly get finer.  Yet, although realizing that money is not the root of evil, sometimes the “love” of money makes you act like a weasel.  This is precisely why this woman named Flo, could feel in her head her brain starting to grow.  She decided to proclaim with great clarity, “I think I’ll give this satchel of cash to a worthy charity.”

Her husband understood (sort of), and slowly exited the room, threw a few F bombs and picked up a broom.  He knew that was the only way he could honestly make money, and that was just perfectly fine with his honey.

Be wise, my gambling friends, on this day.

Have a fun day thinking about the SuperBowl at church this Sunday.  And although his wife, Gazelle, wishes for you to pray for him, I believe Tom Brady has enough of everything.   Rooting, I believe, should be kept separate from praying.

 

 

Brady Who?

Who is this Tom Brady Character, and why was God hugging him after last night’s game against the Broncos?  The only two things I know about this Brady guy is that girls think he is super good looking, and he admits to being a non Virgin.

Tebow finally got laid last night.

THEE END………..Thank God

Theology of Sports

Alright, I promised myself I wouldn’t write about this subject because it is becoming as boring and intriguing as Charlie Sheen.  Charlie Sheen isn’t winning.  Tim Tebow is.  Who is this God he’s praying to and where can I rotary dial his number?  Other than finding me a wonderful bride, He hasn’t answered a Hell of a lot of my phone calls.  I should learn how to text Him.

You know who is losing?  Me.  I’ve lost more money than I have ever made betting against that guy.  Crud.  Now, I find myself rooting for him, somehow believing in a different God or Jesus I still haven’t met yet.  I don’t even know what his denomination is, but it seems to be working.  Thinking it may be Seventh Day Adventist, I gave up pork one day.  That didn’t work.  I prayed for my wife and I to not have an argument on that day.  We did, and it was about chewing gum with your mouth open.  I gave up on that religion.  I then moved on to the Mormon belief seeking some form of salvation.  So, it seemed appropriate to give up drinking for that day.  Didn’t work.  My wife and I had another argument about UPS Vs. Fed Ex.  These were important discussions.

In my youth, I learned about this crazy religion  known as Catholicism.  This required you to attend church on Sundays.  It also allowed you to drink, fight, swear, and then feel sorry about what you did last week, thus making everything A OK.   It seemed the perfect match for me.

However, believing in this religion, I also questioned it.  I didn’t enjoy singing, so I would ask why I was forced to sing the Lord’s Prayer during the service, rather than reciting it with conviction.  Not receiving a valid answer, I just annoyed fellow parishioners with my God Awful voice.

As a boy loving football, I prayed for three items on Sunday.  And, I’m being serious.  I prayed for those less fortunate, I prayed for my family, and I prayed so desperately for the Priest to keep the sermon short so I could make it home to watch the Seahawks, or the Bears at 10 o’clock that morning, because I HAD to watch every second of those games while my dad was making waffles.  The Seahawks and the Bears made me question my faith.  The waffles were so good, it made me think, “Maybe there is a God”.

Continuing my faith in the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, I placed myself in an awkward situation during a baseball game.  I was facing a left handed pitcher in college who threw upwards of nine thousand miles per hour according to my plastic helmet and slow bat speed.  Fearing for my health, and not wishing to embarrass myself in front of girls who dig ballplayers, I stepped out of the batter’s box, and gave myself the sign of the cross.  The umpire said and did something very memorable that day.  He stopped the game and asked me to step out of the batter’s box.  This was unusual, but, since I knew this man, I sort of sensed what was going to come out of his mouth, other than “Strike Three!”  He said, “Did you just make the sign of the cross in the middle of a game”.  I said, “yeah”.  He replied, “God ain’t whatchin this game…..He’s got better things to do”.  I proceeded to strike out, but went on to have a terrific season praying for others, and my head instead of a base hit.

Whatever Tim Tebow is doing seems to be working, and I wish him the best, unless I am betting against him……..and evidently someone from above who is taking a break from disease and catastrophe to watch that remarkable man win games on Sunday, well, I wish him or her the best as well.  Hell, He or She can watch the game with me, as long as they like chicken wings.  I’ll even buy.  It will be my moment of tithing.

Roll Tithing,

Ben

Monday Night Football and Hank Williams Jr.

For those of you who live your lives for Monday Night Football, this should be your singing anthem for this evening’s mess between the Seattle Seahawks and the St. Louis Rams.

If Hank Williams Jr. hadn’t been removed from singing the Monday Night jingle, it may have begun like this.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME SHITBALL?!!!!……  A Monday night snoozer!  This is Fired Randall Hank….. How do I get myself started (again)?

Ok, to educate those who don’t care about football or Hank Williams Jr., I will do my best to inform you that, although a wonderful entertainer, he is a notorious ass-face.  I’m not poking fun at his face, it’s just one of my terms for referring to one as an asshole.  He used to sing the Monday Night Football Party Anthem each Monday before, in another drunken page of his life, deciding to talk about politics on National T.V., as well as flirt with the female interviewing him.  Let this be noted.  I’m not throwing Hank under the Cross Country Bus, and I refuse to spit Beachnut in that dude’s eye.  I listened to and loved his music for years. However, no one in America, other than some southern fools, really care about his political stance. Hank, stick to music.  You’re good at it.  Stick to drinking.  You’re exceptional at it.  Politics, stay away unless you wish to be parodied on Saturday Night Live.

I know this is old news to many regarding the firing of Hank Williams Junior High. But, I thought since the Seattle Seahawks are playing the other High School team known as the St. Louis Rams tonight, perhaps ESPN, or whomever is broadcasting the show should bring back another less than exciting celebrity.  For Pacific Northwest Fans, it will again be a SEA of mediocrity.

Sadly, and embarrassingly, my brother, Tom, our friend, Mike, and his then spectacular wife attended a Hank Williams concert at a venue known as Unplayfair.  It was a horse race track in our hometown of Spokane, Washington.  After purchasing concert tickets and multiple Hank Jr. musical tapes for several years (I didn’t know what a CD was at that time), we were all excited to witness one of the country western singing greats.

No strangers to booze, we all partook in some adult beverages before the concert. So did Hank.  We were told by music authorities he may be a little tardy for the concert.  There was no opening act, and we ran out of money for libations.  Therefore, we were a bit agitated.  Two hours later, with bellies full of beer and empty wallets, Hank arrived.  He didn’t have a shirt on, and the hair on his chest did not outnumber the shots he had taken before arriving.  He played songs we either had not heard of, or were simply stolen from whatever band wrote “Sweet Home Alabama”.  I don’t remember much, other than a fight breaking out amongst fans who were clearly drunk and disoriented, and a guitar solo lasting  longer than the lifespan of a redneck wood tree.  I would have preferred watching that tree grow.

Enjoy the game tonight, or get to cooking dinner and talking to someone special.  Or, burn a Hank Jr. CD.  You can interpret that anyway you wish.

Heisman Upsets (friendly sibling rivalries)

There is a person in my family who owes me 100 fake dollars on a bet he lost.  I haven’t heard from him since we made the fake bet.  That was 20 some odd hours ago.  You may be thinking, “What in the hell is a fake bet”?   Actually, it’s merely a friendly bet.  Since betting is illegal in certain areas, and neither of us have ever crossed the law, we often make wagers in a magical world filled with Monopoly money and Leprechauns. We are also quite competitive, so actual forms of currency don’t apply.  We just want to win.  The phone call conceding  the bet is sufficient.  It makes one of us sleep well at night knowing the older or younger brother has lost confidence.  That’s invaluable in any relationship:  making ones you love lose confidence.

Allow me to provide a lesson regarding gambling.  Using words and phrases such as, “Guarantee”, “Lock”, or “Stone Cold Lock” usually result in you being in the backseat of the gambling God of cars.  Sometimes, you may find yourself  in the trunk.   I know, I’ve been there many times, figuratively.  This family member has placed me there many times, but yesterday’s Heisman bet was certainly a guarantee for my brother.  He sealed his destiny with some of his statements, and lost, and Luck certainly wasn’t in his corner.

Be careful what you “guarantee”.  Most importantly, bet on yourself.  That’s the only only one you can truly count on……other than cards.

Ben

PGS: (post gambling syndrome)  If one of my siblings has any contact with a man named M. Thew, tell him this is dedicated to him.  Also, tell him to help me get the bookies off my tarnished bottom.

Mediocrity

Mediocrity should be placed in the Hall of Fame of Embarrassing Words.  We all know what four letter words are, but shouldn’t a nine letter word such as “mediocrity” share those four letter words’ fame?  I believe it should, much like I believe Pete Rose should be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Pete Rose may have been a mediocre gambler, but he was an outstanding competitor.

Mediocre  shouldn’t be in the Hall of Fame of Words.  I only write this because I have been mediocre at so many things.  I am man enough to acknowledge this. I was a mediocre baseball player.  I was a mediocre football player.  I was a mediocre student. I was also a mediocre teacher and coach on certain days.  To receive a C grade in class allows you not to fail.  But really, other than graduating from High School or college, do you wish to place that C average on your resume?  We place so much greatness in mediocrity.  Let me make this simple.  When I was mediocre at anything, I was pissed off at the world.  Since I’m still mediocre and pissed about everything ( other than my wife and my life), and including not playing in the big leagues,  I wish to congratulate the Seattle Mariners, the Seattle Seahawks, and the Washington Huskies for accepting mediocrity.

Failing is ok.  Accepting it is not.  It doesn’t mean you have to throw tantrums and beat your  head on the floor.  It means you must do everything possible, on every play, or in every inning to WIN.  My coaching and teaching friend, Russ, and I presented a speech each year regarding losing.   We took it out of a Bible Verse.  It’s the Book According to Steve.  “Losing is for Losers!!”.  Somehow, this wise man is still living.  How many other Bible members are still living these days?  I only know of one.

I am happily married to a woman.  Loving her and respecting her is absolutely essential for our success.  It’s quite easy.  She is far more bright than I shall ever be, but when I speak of winning, and she speaks of sympathy, I know where the pants should be placed.  I have no fun losing at Scrabble to her.  She has no fun losing at Monopoly to me.  Many of my friends and relatives despise losing at Cribbage to me.  Losing is simply NO FUN.

For all those fabulous mothers out in space, it’s ok for your son or daughter to lose.  A hand can be raised for the winner and you don’t have to scream obscenities or become upset.   You just have to tell them to beat the Holy Hell out of them the next time they meet.

Games are fun. Losing isn’t.

Fiascos and Debacles

The words fiasco and debacle are terrific words.  However, they sometimes can be used haphazardly in certain situations.  Never actually being aware of how strong these words are, I am guilty of abusing them without acknowledging their official meanings.  Throughout the last two weeks, I have tossed these words out of my mouth like a salad shooter or balls exiting a pitching machine.  I feel as though I’ve been unfair and wish to apologize to these words.  This is not easy……I’ve never had to do this before.  Here it goes:  Sorry, Mr.and Mrs. Fiasco.  Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Debacle.  That hurt, but now I feel a little better.

Official Ridiculous Definitions: Fiasco: “a complete ridiculous failure”.

Debacle: “a crushing defeat” or 2, “a ruinous collapse”.

My father used to watch Monday Night Football with us and was agitated with words so commonly used from commentators such as “unbelievable” and “incredible”.  A wide receiver catching a ball across the field is not incredible or unbelievable when it occurs several times a game.  A talented and wonderful play…..yes, but not incredible or unbelievable.  Let’s save those terms for someone who jumps off the top of the Empire State Building without a parachute, lands on his or her feet without a scratch, and then heads for some good Italian food.  That’s both unbelievable and incredible.

Let me explain where this may or may not be going.  My wife and I were assisting the move of one of our dear friends moving from Spokane, Washington to Los Angeles, California.  Since we reside in Seattle, Washington and my friend lived in Spokane, our only choice was to facilitate communication between the moving company and our friend while he painstakingly placed all of his precious belongings in packages, boxes and bags. (I stole that line from my man, Dr. Suess……Grinch).  It  wasn’t an easy task for all of us, but I can’t really consider it a fiasco or debacle.  If he doesn’t arrive safely in LA, then we may choose such words.  Otherwise, it was simply a boiling mess.  I don’t believe it was a ruinous collapse, crushing defeat, or a complete failure, it was simply a time to help clean up.

The next time I complain and moan about vacuuming our dog’s hair, I will refrain from using the phrases, “This is a (bleeping) fiasco”.  Or, “What a (bleeping) debacle”.  I’ll merely yank the remaining hairs off the top of my head, and think, “This is a mess”.

Those messes can be easily cleaned up without punching a fist through a wall.  I’m old enough and wise enough to know that just costs me more money and, more importantly, cell phones and remote controls.

Godspeed to my friend…..I hope he makes it

College Football (personal rivalries) and Target

Millions of people love the game of football.  I’m one of them.  For those of you who don’t really give a damn about the game, this is your chance to jump on the “I hate football bandwagon”.  Specifically, in my case, I am going to watch, with furious passion, every down of  THEE University of Washington football games this year. Or, if I may “Flatball games”.  Now, of course, I will have to plan this very strategically with regard to the young Britt and Chain.  It’s a simple solution.  When I require watching a Husky game, our bargaining agreement is that she is allowed to visit a place called Target, where she can get drunk by purchasing five thousand dollars of crap she, the dogs, cats, and less importantly, I don’t need.  (I’m currently wearing a Dairy Queen shirt purchased for 10 dollars by my wife, Britt……the neighbors are making fun of me).

My current wife and I graduated from the less relevant Washington STATE University… home of the Mighty Meowing Cougars.  She earned a psychology degree, and I purchased an English Degree.  Thus, it’s a bit odd we support the local Huskies.  My ex-wife, her two brothers, father, several cousins and one of their dogs graduated from the University of Washington, all with honors, including the dog, who is currently a licensed physician.  I won’t mention any of their names, including the dog’s, but they were all good people….including the dog.  They were also wildly smart and talented in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.  Therefore, I grew to hate all of them purely out of jealousy.  The WSU, UW, rivalry amongst some of us in this new family also began to blossom….and, by blossom, I don’t mean like a flower or a glorious butterfly, but a bitter ugliness only idiots like me can understand.

During the rivalry Apple Cup Weekend, I had internal disagreements with my then mother in law.  She possessed less knowledge about football than I did about the next coming of Christ.   As a self proclaimed prophet regarding Husky/Cougar games, she was correct most of the time.  The Huskies have a terrific tradition with beating the Cougars, but the Cougs were making a stance for many of the years I attended the college.  By stance, I mean the Cougs ACTUALLY beat the Huskies on several occasions.  Much like a person with Alzheimer’s might react, she could not recall a time the Cougs had ever beaten the Huskies……..which had happened the year before.  Still, she would make comments like this which made me wish to swing, but you just can’t justify hitting a girl even when it’s about football.  “Do the Cougars really think they can beat the huskies?” I was only speechless because I provide forgiveness for the blind, deaf and stupid.  I maintain far more respect for people such as my mom….blind, deaf, kind, and far from stupid.  By the wayside, my ex mother in law was far from stupid.  In fact, she was always kind to me yet smart enough to get in my football kitchen.  I hate it when people are brighter than me. Darn it!

I couldn’t watch the annual Apple Cup rivalry that day because: One, I was spineless and TWO: I spent most of the day at Nordstrom’s with my ex-wife and mother in-law.  On the drive back home, I convinced wife and mother in law to turn on the game radio.  The Huskies won on a last second field goal, and mother in lawless looked at me with disgust, further convincing herself she knew football better than most.  I then threw up in her new car.  It was my only form of defense.

Back to football, rivalries, and Target. If you were paying any attention to college football over the weekend, you may have noticed that the University of Washington narrowly squeaked past a very formidable opponent, Eastern Washington University which happens to be a division 2 school.  The U of W was extremely lucky to be victorious.  Only making a friendly bet with brother Tom, I thought the Huskies would easily conquer.  I lost the bet, but really didn’t care because Britt was happy not looking for the remote control in The Puget Sound.  (secretly, I began rooting for the underdog, Eastern Washington)

Guilty of jumping on the pretentious University of Washington Bandwagon, and now living in Seattle, I have been made fun of by fellow Cougs and friends including my wife, who just simply despise U dubious.  An experience on Sunday solidified their argument…….and it was not created by jealousy…..sort of.

In line at the local farmer’s market, I noticed the non-gentleman in front of me was wearing a U Dub Cap.  Kindly, just bored standing in line, I said, “wow, that was a tough one yesterday…..Eastern really put up a good fight”.  That was all I had to say.  This jerk was pissed because the Huskies only won by three points.  He was abjectly disgusted by the fact the infantile Eagles of Eastern Washington, formerly known as the Savages, could even entertain the notion of winning.  For those who know and appreciate the game of football, this was offensive.

Initially,  I wanted to cram my knuckles through his pretentious teeth.  But, remembering my pacifist background much like a vegetarian transitions from meat to soybean, I made the conscious decision not to kill him.  And then, he kicked it up a notch.  This guy struck a nerve with me forcing me to call my “Swing Like a Wild Man Settle Down Hotline”.  After lying about playing this high level of football, he went on to describe how a team like Central Washington University should be playing with High School children.  My brother, Tom, an all state running back, played football for Central for four years.  He never made it to the NFL, but anyone who watched him play, had and maintains tremendous respect for what he did on the field.  At that point, the man in this market was in danger of having his necked snapped after disrespecting my brother.  My fuse was getting shorter and shorter as the line grew longer and longer and the tomatoes were getting older.  That’s when I called the hotline.  Coincidentally, my wife answered.  She was at Target and politely told my not to swing like a wild man.  I relaxed, smiled, and walked to Target, where she bought me an ice cream cone and a ridiculous t-shirt.

(for those of you a-hole husky fans who are not arrogant,  I apologize…….believe me, there are plenty of a-hole coug fans)

Let’s just all keep our egos in check, and Husky fans . . . please stop making it difficult to support your team.

Ben Gannon