There is certainly no shortage of sports heroes in America today. No matter what your sport of choice is, there is always one person that stands above the rest. Lebron James, Peyton Manning, Parker Bohn III (now that’s a name drop), or Sidney Crosby, there is always someone for all the kids in the neighborhood to look up to.
On a side note: the other day I was watching “Liar, Liar” when I was working out (really gets me pumped up), and the little boy wants to play baseball with his father…and I stood there with a look on my face that said “I smell farts” when the boy said “I’ll be Nomo, you get to be Canseco”. Which seemed like a very odd thing to want to be. The boy wants to be the 1996 NL Rookie of the year? (which in hindsight was undeserved, look where Chipper Jones is now…) and he wants his father to write a tell-some book and then appear in lingerie on “The Surreal Life” that sounds really gay…I’m sorry but it does. That’s like me going outside and wanting to play a game with my buddies where I get to be “Short round” from Indiana Jones, and my buddy gets to be Al Sharpton.
As many of you may (but probably don’t) know, my sport of preference is Golf. So the obvious questions are often asked “You for Tiger or Phil?” to which I answer Phil, I often get “Who do you think will win this week?” to which I usually reply, Tiger…but my favorite question that I get asked is the easiest question of all.
“So Linde…who’s you’re favorite golfer?” This question takes no time at all to contemplate…for the answer is clear.
David Duval.
Sometimes this answer is met by a quizzical face of “who the hell is that?” but mostly I’m asked “Where the hell has he been?” it is because of these questions that I love David Duval. Let me count the ways.
YEAH…THAT GUY.
If you turned on golf at anytime between 1998-2001 you heard his name. He finished in the top 15 in an unheard of 12 of the 15 majors he played during that span of time. Before the force that is Tiger, that was quite an impressive feat. He has one of the most beautiful swings I had ever seen. He looked like a guy that may own a cool boat. He certainly looked like a guy that preferred nacho cheese to salsa…for these things I was enamored with Mr. Duval as a youth.
THE DOWNFALL.
The best part about David Duval is that nobody knows who he is anymore. He has literally seemed to have disappeared off of the face of the earth. How do you go from #1 in the world to completely off the radar (other than the 1985 Kansas City Royals)? He has made one cut in 13 events this year…a staggering number. Not only that but he has gained an inordinate amount of weight, grown a goatee, and married a woman that already had three kids. He’s kind of like your 7th grade teacher that ended up marrying a lunch lady, a abysmal choice, but it was really the only choice he had. Much like Hitler, Stalin, and George W. Bush, we look at people with the world in their hands and secretly wish that they fall hard. Watching Duval golf anymore is like watching Bill Gates work as a receptionist at a Free Clinic after the fall of Microsoft.
THE MONEY
On par (no pun intended) with the Bill Gates Metaphor, Duval is a guy who received one of the biggest contracts from Nike since the Michael Jordan era. A 10 year deal worth reportedly over $13 mil. At the time, for a white golfer, that was staggering. He was making millions on the course as well, he had it all. Endorsements with Nike and Oakley (for those robo-cop M-frames he wears), a pairing with Tiger Woods in the Ryder cup (a purported dream duo), and a Major win (2001 British Open). And then what? Nothing.
THE PRESENT
Forget that Duval had his own SIGNATURE BALL, his own SIGNATURE SUNGLASSES, and most likely a condom marketing deal in the works, he was supposed to be one of the GREATEST of all time. Can you imagine if Michael Jordan, after 6 titles began shooting free throws like Shaq? If Alex Rodriguez couldn’t hit a ball off a tee? Or if Ray Lewis killed a man? Superior athletes do not receive huge endorsement deals and perform on an uncanny level for years and then disappear. We have many draft flops and trade blowups, but we never see somebody pull a “Duval”. Except for the man himself.
THE 59
The last point is perhaps the most crucial. The 1999 Bob Hope Chrysler Classic. Duval is a non-factor. 9 shots back to start the day. All of a sudden he shoots a PGA Tour record 59 (13 under) final round to win the tournament by 1, solidifying double fist pumps and Tommy Hilfiger button up polo’s un-cool for the rest of time. David Duval may NEVER have this record touched. Nicklaus, Tiger, Watson, NOBODY has shot 59 in a final round ever….except for Duval. He is as famous as Hank Aaron, yet as infamous as Bill Buckner…all of this seems oddly surreal.
So there it is. I’m not going to be ashamed of it any longer. He was everything, he is now nothing. So far this year, I have made more money than Duval, that is staggering. But oddly not, considering we’ve played golf with the same amount of talent as well.
An odd side note: I had to look up Hideo Nomo to verify if he won the 1995 or the 1996 Rookie of the Year honors. When I did this, I found that he had his own signature shoe the “Air Max Nomo” in ’97, Nike tends to be extremely hit or miss when it comes to the money they put into future stars.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Confessions of a Street Dancer
There was certainly a lot to be pondered this weekend. It was my typical Nebraska weekend, which I can not ever help but be overjoyed with. I’m talking about things that simply cannot occur in New York City. Things like bonfires, golfing, pool drinking, and street dancing. I know what you’re thinking: bonfires? Like ‘em, golfing? Like it. Pool drinking? Love it. Street Dancing? What are you some kind of cowboy hat wearing hooligan? Perhaps you’re thinking “they’re fires, golfing, pools, and dancing in NYC and it’s much cooler than Nebraska” to which you’d also be more or less correct.
In any event, I do not own a cowboy hat…and in hindsight, street dancing may not be for me.
But I will tell you what is for me, and that is margaritas and 7&7’s regardless of obscene price ($4? Get out of here with that). And drunk women who dance provocatively to marginal house bands on a hot summer night. (Note: These women do not have last names, and in most cases I forget if they have first names).
I can never decipher whether this is where I belong, or whether I awake everyday to a fish out of water scenario. For this I have been a tad bit confused, and although I try not to get to “deep” on this thing, I find it only fair that I beg the 3 questions I actually questioned this weekend.
1. Does any person that wears business attire (i.e. a shirt and tie) have a pass to be “that drunk guy” at the pool? Me and some friends often find our way to the pool at my place on Saturdays, Southern Comfort in hand, where we pretty much make fun of the college guys doing stupid stuff, and ogle the cute bikini-clad women that lay out. I am far too young to think that I don’t belong, but I also can’t help but think that I’m out of my element. I only think this on Monday’s…because while I’m going back to work from my lunch I notice all the same people out at the pool…without me…because I’m the only one with a job.
2. What’s with the country music/cowboy hat lifestyle in Lincoln? I haven’t seen this the entire time I’ve lived here, but suddenly you put a party outside, include alcohol, and everybody is rummaging through their closet for the gayest double-breast pocketed shirt and cowboy hat. Do guys really think this is proper anywhere in the country? I know that people think there are hicks in Nebraska but there is a time and a place, and that time is never, and the place is maybe in Alabama… jeez, and for a while there I actually defended Nebraska against the stereotypes…
3. I told you I was going to be honest with the questions I asked myself…and because I’m as honest with you as I am with my ex-girlfriends…which is very honest…seriously, I have no idea who that girl was, I have never met her in my life. Anyway….who decided that they were going to start serving Marinara sauce with things? Breadsticks, cheeseballs, mozzarella sticks, etc. That’s a poor man’s way out. I know you’ve got ranch back there, why put spaghetti sauce in a dish and expect me to be satisfied? This is fried…full of cheese…there is no room in this equation for tomato substances…give me the ranch and step away from the table: lest you get deershanked.
Obviously it was an interesting weekend. With so much inner-philosophy being begged. I made the $100 bet with my buddy Bo over the fall that the Celtics would win the NBA Championship and I’ve got a couple ideas of what to do with it.
1. Frame the check: this would put my great sports predicting genius on display for all to see…
2. Buy 52 stupid things for roughly $1.85/per. And mail them to Bo on a weekly basis, thus constantly reminding him to never bet against my genius and to suffer the incredibly ridiculous spending of his money.
3. Spend the 100 at a strip club while wearing a Larry Bird throwback Indiana State jersey.
4. Gamble the 100 on Big Brown to be euthanized before Flag Day.
5. Invest the money in a high risk bond, wait it out for 20 years and find myself in a 4 story beach home in the year 2028, resting comfortably on the beach with a beer in my hand and a Kevin Garnett Minnesota Timberwolves jersey on my back.
I’ve got a few weeks to think about it, they’re stringing out the NBA Finals longer than William Hung’s celebrity status. Any advice on the matter would be quite appreciated.
In any event, I do not own a cowboy hat…and in hindsight, street dancing may not be for me.
But I will tell you what is for me, and that is margaritas and 7&7’s regardless of obscene price ($4? Get out of here with that). And drunk women who dance provocatively to marginal house bands on a hot summer night. (Note: These women do not have last names, and in most cases I forget if they have first names).
I can never decipher whether this is where I belong, or whether I awake everyday to a fish out of water scenario. For this I have been a tad bit confused, and although I try not to get to “deep” on this thing, I find it only fair that I beg the 3 questions I actually questioned this weekend.
1. Does any person that wears business attire (i.e. a shirt and tie) have a pass to be “that drunk guy” at the pool? Me and some friends often find our way to the pool at my place on Saturdays, Southern Comfort in hand, where we pretty much make fun of the college guys doing stupid stuff, and ogle the cute bikini-clad women that lay out. I am far too young to think that I don’t belong, but I also can’t help but think that I’m out of my element. I only think this on Monday’s…because while I’m going back to work from my lunch I notice all the same people out at the pool…without me…because I’m the only one with a job.
2. What’s with the country music/cowboy hat lifestyle in Lincoln? I haven’t seen this the entire time I’ve lived here, but suddenly you put a party outside, include alcohol, and everybody is rummaging through their closet for the gayest double-breast pocketed shirt and cowboy hat. Do guys really think this is proper anywhere in the country? I know that people think there are hicks in Nebraska but there is a time and a place, and that time is never, and the place is maybe in Alabama… jeez, and for a while there I actually defended Nebraska against the stereotypes…
3. I told you I was going to be honest with the questions I asked myself…and because I’m as honest with you as I am with my ex-girlfriends…which is very honest…seriously, I have no idea who that girl was, I have never met her in my life. Anyway….who decided that they were going to start serving Marinara sauce with things? Breadsticks, cheeseballs, mozzarella sticks, etc. That’s a poor man’s way out. I know you’ve got ranch back there, why put spaghetti sauce in a dish and expect me to be satisfied? This is fried…full of cheese…there is no room in this equation for tomato substances…give me the ranch and step away from the table: lest you get deershanked.
Obviously it was an interesting weekend. With so much inner-philosophy being begged. I made the $100 bet with my buddy Bo over the fall that the Celtics would win the NBA Championship and I’ve got a couple ideas of what to do with it.
1. Frame the check: this would put my great sports predicting genius on display for all to see…
2. Buy 52 stupid things for roughly $1.85/per. And mail them to Bo on a weekly basis, thus constantly reminding him to never bet against my genius and to suffer the incredibly ridiculous spending of his money.
3. Spend the 100 at a strip club while wearing a Larry Bird throwback Indiana State jersey.
4. Gamble the 100 on Big Brown to be euthanized before Flag Day.
5. Invest the money in a high risk bond, wait it out for 20 years and find myself in a 4 story beach home in the year 2028, resting comfortably on the beach with a beer in my hand and a Kevin Garnett Minnesota Timberwolves jersey on my back.
I’ve got a few weeks to think about it, they’re stringing out the NBA Finals longer than William Hung’s celebrity status. Any advice on the matter would be quite appreciated.
Monday, June 2, 2008
A new view of second chances.
I’ve seen the light. Well, not particularly. I guess I’ve seen lights…but they aren’t very life changing. But this particular light is currently making my blog.
I’m a pretty self-aware person. I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the types of people that I get along with and the types of people that I do not. I very rarely have large life changing epiphanies, and to be quite honest, this isn’t one. But it still deserves to be out to the masses. This is big enough for me to want to share.
I recently read “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby. This was a popular book from the mid nineties that I had never read, and I’m quite aware that it was made into a movie with that pseudo-homo John Cusack and I had not seen that movie either. Now there wasn’t anything within the content of High Fidelity that I found groundbreaking. It was—however—a great book. Now this in and of itself is not a plug for anybody to read the book. The thing that blew my mind was this: I hate Nick Hornby.
In 2006 I was at the lake with one of my exes. I had decided to bring along Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho” to read on the beach. Those four days of reading were the most captivating and oddly mystifying of my vacation reading career. If you don’t believe me, then consider this: the next time you’re out on the beach, look at the guy next to you. Now picture him reading a book about horrendously violent murders while having a hard on…that was me.
Now after finishing the book, I was informed by my ex-box that we’d be spending another 3 days at the lake. This I was not prepared for. I didn’t have any extra clothes, not much money, and most importantly, nothing to read on the beach while I drank myself into a stupor. So I went out and about looking for a book to read. The bookstores in the lakeside shops were pretty standard. Something with Fabio on the cover, or Shopaholic goes dancing. But somewhere amidst the crap I found a book called A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. I saw that he was the author of High Fidelity, a book I’ve heard a lot about, and decided to buy it.
I finished A Long Way Down, but let me tell you this. It may have been written by an autistic four year old. The book was complete crap. I can’t believe that the publisher received my $14.95 for that crap. It was the most understated piece of literary shit that I’ve ever read.
Enter my epiphany.
I wouldn’t say that High Fidelity was the best book I’ve ever read. It may make the top 20, but it’s certainly not number 1. (See: Glamorama) But A Long Way Down does rank amongst my 5 least favorite books.
How can one man produce what is essentially something great. And something that is complete garbage? I looked within myself to answer.
I am quite fabulous. This I know, and you do too. So in most cases, waking up and brushing my teeth is so fantastic that it ranks amongst my top moments in anybody’s life. Regardless, I had to look at specific moments in my life where people that have never met me have seen odd sides of me. Although I can be known as the “Author of High Fidelity”, what were the situations where people saw me as the “Author of A Long Way Down”? Dig? Here’s a few moments.
2005 à I drunkenly argue with a fat girl at a party. Puke on the deck, shit on the lawn, and wipe my ass on a Cadillac. All within about 30 minutes of each other. Anybody that bears witness to this display must think that I’m pretty retarded and have no control over anything my body takes in or out. I also worked at K-mart for 2 weeks…that alone would make people draw strange conclusions.
2006 à After a window is broken on a car and a laundry basket full of clothes is thrown into the street, I set them ablaze. A few friends and I watch. All that is left in the morning is a few melted buttons and a giant black stain. Anybody that sees this probably thinks that I’m a felon and a pyromaniac. I am both, but do not partake in either on a regular basis.
2007 à During an insane beer pong winning streak (12 games) I am completely wasted and shit talking any challengers. Most of the people at the party do not know who I am. Although I am getting laughs for the most of the night, I start getting cocky. My teammate and I are doing trick shots against these two girls. Both of which are cute, but very young. I am doing shots blindfolded, left-handed, and my psyche outs pretty much consist of me dropping my shorts.
After an incredible comeback, I am defeated. I take this opportunity to slap my remaining beers at my competitors, soaking both women in warm, stale beer. The crowd is not amused and although I refuse to apologize and leave the party, I can’t imagine my actions are referred to as classy.
2008 à Any combination of the words “drunk”, “naked”, “pass out”, and “open apartment windows” should do the trick.
So go on and think about what people have seen you at your worst, or even your least normal. And think of all the people you’ve only seen once and didn’t think were very decent people. Perhaps you just saw their “A Long Way Down” when they have a “High Fidelity” sitting on their shelf.
How Profound,
Peace.
I’m a pretty self-aware person. I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the types of people that I get along with and the types of people that I do not. I very rarely have large life changing epiphanies, and to be quite honest, this isn’t one. But it still deserves to be out to the masses. This is big enough for me to want to share.
I recently read “High Fidelity” by Nick Hornby. This was a popular book from the mid nineties that I had never read, and I’m quite aware that it was made into a movie with that pseudo-homo John Cusack and I had not seen that movie either. Now there wasn’t anything within the content of High Fidelity that I found groundbreaking. It was—however—a great book. Now this in and of itself is not a plug for anybody to read the book. The thing that blew my mind was this: I hate Nick Hornby.
In 2006 I was at the lake with one of my exes. I had decided to bring along Bret Easton Ellis’s “American Psycho” to read on the beach. Those four days of reading were the most captivating and oddly mystifying of my vacation reading career. If you don’t believe me, then consider this: the next time you’re out on the beach, look at the guy next to you. Now picture him reading a book about horrendously violent murders while having a hard on…that was me.
Now after finishing the book, I was informed by my ex-box that we’d be spending another 3 days at the lake. This I was not prepared for. I didn’t have any extra clothes, not much money, and most importantly, nothing to read on the beach while I drank myself into a stupor. So I went out and about looking for a book to read. The bookstores in the lakeside shops were pretty standard. Something with Fabio on the cover, or Shopaholic goes dancing. But somewhere amidst the crap I found a book called A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby. I saw that he was the author of High Fidelity, a book I’ve heard a lot about, and decided to buy it.
I finished A Long Way Down, but let me tell you this. It may have been written by an autistic four year old. The book was complete crap. I can’t believe that the publisher received my $14.95 for that crap. It was the most understated piece of literary shit that I’ve ever read.
Enter my epiphany.
I wouldn’t say that High Fidelity was the best book I’ve ever read. It may make the top 20, but it’s certainly not number 1. (See: Glamorama) But A Long Way Down does rank amongst my 5 least favorite books.
How can one man produce what is essentially something great. And something that is complete garbage? I looked within myself to answer.
I am quite fabulous. This I know, and you do too. So in most cases, waking up and brushing my teeth is so fantastic that it ranks amongst my top moments in anybody’s life. Regardless, I had to look at specific moments in my life where people that have never met me have seen odd sides of me. Although I can be known as the “Author of High Fidelity”, what were the situations where people saw me as the “Author of A Long Way Down”? Dig? Here’s a few moments.
2005 à I drunkenly argue with a fat girl at a party. Puke on the deck, shit on the lawn, and wipe my ass on a Cadillac. All within about 30 minutes of each other. Anybody that bears witness to this display must think that I’m pretty retarded and have no control over anything my body takes in or out. I also worked at K-mart for 2 weeks…that alone would make people draw strange conclusions.
2006 à After a window is broken on a car and a laundry basket full of clothes is thrown into the street, I set them ablaze. A few friends and I watch. All that is left in the morning is a few melted buttons and a giant black stain. Anybody that sees this probably thinks that I’m a felon and a pyromaniac. I am both, but do not partake in either on a regular basis.
2007 à During an insane beer pong winning streak (12 games) I am completely wasted and shit talking any challengers. Most of the people at the party do not know who I am. Although I am getting laughs for the most of the night, I start getting cocky. My teammate and I are doing trick shots against these two girls. Both of which are cute, but very young. I am doing shots blindfolded, left-handed, and my psyche outs pretty much consist of me dropping my shorts.
After an incredible comeback, I am defeated. I take this opportunity to slap my remaining beers at my competitors, soaking both women in warm, stale beer. The crowd is not amused and although I refuse to apologize and leave the party, I can’t imagine my actions are referred to as classy.
2008 à Any combination of the words “drunk”, “naked”, “pass out”, and “open apartment windows” should do the trick.
So go on and think about what people have seen you at your worst, or even your least normal. And think of all the people you’ve only seen once and didn’t think were very decent people. Perhaps you just saw their “A Long Way Down” when they have a “High Fidelity” sitting on their shelf.
How Profound,
Peace.
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