Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Break ups are hard to do

What up world,

Tonight begins the T-Wolves' epic quest toward a 2009 lottery pick. They may provide occasional flashes of brilliance throughout the upcoming months where they steal a win away from an actual contender, but when it comes to April we will be watching the NBA playoffs sans our Wolves. Kevin McHale will continue to try and get fired with another awful draft, and we will continue to slowly weep whenever KG appears in Celtics green. It almost makes me want to completely ignore the team this year. Like they are an ex-girlfriend that has broken my heart. I'm considering burning my playoff towels, breaking my KG bobblehead, and throwing darts on the Stephon Marbury birthday card that I received in middle school.

But I can't do any of these things. I have been reading all of the player bios over the past couple weeks, while following each of the preseason games. I even watched one of them on ESPN's gamecast. I'm sick. I just can't get those adorable Wuffies out of my system.

For pretty much my entire conscience life, I've followed the team. From the original Pooh Richardson days to the glories of Garnett, I've watched and attended the games, always thinking, "Next season is going to be a different story. We will eventually be better." Little did I know what was about to occur.

It hurt me when Guggliota left. It hurt worse through the whole Marbury debacle, but nothing will compare to the divorce with Garnett. I would cry myself to sleep after watching the finals last summer. How could he leave us and immediately start dating another team? They were just his rebound right? He would come back to us eventually when he realized how much we loved him. He had to. I wanted to bomb the city of Boston when I saw this commercial.

After a season apart from Garnett, my wounds are slowly starting to heal. Each day gets a little easier, and I think that I could eventually move on from my previous KG relationship. Maybe even love again. I'm not sure that it is going to be the current team, or if there is some other draft pick out there in the future that will rekindle my love affair. Maybe I'll fall for KG-lite, or flirt with Foye, or maybe even start to love Love.

Let's just start with a good first date. Do well tonight boys.

-Sota

Monday, October 27, 2008

Brothers Gotta Share

What up world,

While wandering the hallways of the Vikings practice facility earlier this year, I heard the following conversation.

Kevin Williams: "Pat are you crying?"
Pat Williams (sniffling): "Oh, hey Kevin."
Kev: "What's going on? What's wrong?"
Pat: "Nothing."
Kev: "Come on. You can tell me. I'm your brother."
Pat: "Well, it's just that all of the guys in the locker room keep calling me Fat Pat. People on the radio are saying it too. Even the fans call me fat."
Kev: "Pat, you're just a little bigger than most of the other kids. I wouldn't call you fat. Maybe just a little chunky."
Pat: "I am fat. I know it. My bathroom scale doesn't even register my weight any more. It just says 'Error', like a bad Garfield cartoon. Even Coach said that I wouldn't be able to play if I didn't lose weight."
Kev: "Well then, you and I will hit the weight room and work off some of those pounds this week."
Pat: "I don't think it's going to work. The thing is, when people call me Fat Pat, it just makes me depressed. When I'm depressed, all I want to do is eat. I went to McDonalds before practice this morning."
Kev: "They have a couple of healthy options at McDonalds. What did you get?"
Pat: "When they asked what I wanted, I just said "everything". I got everything Kev. I even supersized my order. I sat in my car in the parking lot and took it all down. When I was done, I went through the drive through and got a milkshake for the road."
Kev: "It's across the street."
Pat (sobbing): "I know."
Kev: "Well, we can work on this together. We'll go see a dietician and get this thing under control."
Pat: "How are you not as fat as I am? We're brothers, and you look anorexic compared to me."
Kev: "Well, I have a little weight loss secret that I haven't told anyone about."
Pat: "What? Tell me. I need help here Kev."
Kev: "Well, it's this little pill called Bumetanide."
Pat: "Bu..me...t..."
Kev: "I just call it a water pill. It helps me keep some of the weight off. I'll let you use some of them for a while if you want. The only thing is, we can't tell anyone about this. If we get caught using these weight loss drugs, someone might think that we were trying to mask steroid use."
Pat: "But we would never EVER use steroids."
Kev: "I know, but you know how people talk."
Pat: "Yeah. Hopefully these water pills do the trick. Pretty soon people will be calling me Phat Pat. Like with a 'ph' phat, not 'f' fat."
Kev: "Nice one. Now lets go put cottage cheese in Jared Allen's cowboy hat. It will be hilarious."

With that they left. I learned a couple of things during the conversation. One, Pat and Kevin Williams really are brothers, even though everyone thinks that they aren't. Two, the water pills were just for weight loss purposes and could not have used to mask steroid use. Three, Jared Allen is a huge hick (I may have already known this). Please Commish, take it easy on the team. I think that Zygi might go on a killing spree if anything else happens to the team this season.

-Sota

Friday, October 24, 2008

Ends are tight

What up world,

I'm a fairly regular reader of other Minnesota sporting blogs and message boards. For the most part it seems that there are quite a number of Minnesota Vikings fans out there that share many of the same sentiments that I do. We are a frustrated bunch of masochists who occasionally say or write some things that might not be all that kind to members of the team or coaching staff. Yet we continue to follow our favorite bunch of purple heathens each weekend, hoping against all logic that they may still turn things around. The Vikes have a bye this weekend, and I'm hoping that Chilly will take the time to revise the game plan a little or that JD Booty will suddenly become bootilicious as our starting quarterback or that the special teams has a group sleepover where they make a blood pact to never F things up again for the rest of season. Anything is possible in the bye week. Changes for the better can happen. I'm convinced of it.

Just look at my boy Visanthe Shiancoe (spelled correctly after four tries). After watching him last season and the beginning of this season, I took a contract out on his life. It was a bit expensive to do, but I was convinced that it was worth it. If I saw him drop another touchdown pass or first down reception, my head was going to explode over the entire living room. And then, somewhere between the Titans game and last week, he suddenly started to improve. I started questioning whether it was really a good idea to have him killed, but I wanted to talk to him before I called it off.

Sota: Yo, Visanthe. What up? It's your boy Sota.
Visanthe Shiancoe: Oh, what up Sota? What's going on?
S: Hey man, I just wanted to call to tell you that I've been impressed by some of the catches that you've made the last couple of weeks.
VS: You know, I'm just doing my job.
S: See that's the funny thing. For over a year you haven't been doing your job very well at all. I mean, you were terrible.
VS: Yeah. True, but...
S: I mean awful. Like make-me-sick-on-myself awful. I can't tell you how many times I tried to curse your name during that time period. I really wasn't sure how to pronounce it, so I just said things like, "F that guy" and pointed at the screen.
VS: Yeah, it's a tough name...
S: And then you actually started catching. Just when I, the Minnesota fan-base, and apparently the entire coaching staff had completely given up on you. What happened?
VS: Well, I didn't really want to tell anyone this, but I underwent surgery at the start of season.
S: Really?
VS: Yeah, I was afflicted with a condition called Magnititus.
S: I've never heard of that before. If would have thought that you're condition would be something more like "sucks-balls-ingus".
VS: Well I have a minor case of that as well. Magnititus is when you're hands are magnetized, but with opposing charges. It's an adult on-set condition that affects something like 10% of all humans.
S: That sounds ridiculous.
VS: No, it's true. Look at this picture.

VS: Every time a ball was thrown to me, I couldn't close my grip on it. It would either go right through my hands or I would go all dropsie on it.
S: That's pretty much spot on.
VS: I couldn't catch even the easiest of passes.
S: Also correct.
VS: So I had the surgery during training camp, but it's taken a while for my hands to heal up enough to actually hold onto a football.
S: So you are saying that you will never drop a ball again.
VS: That's correct.
S: Okay, well I guess that I won't have you killed then.
VS: What?
S: Nothing. Later Big V.

So that's that. Hopefully we will have the tight end that we thought we were paying for last season. If that's true, I might choose to forgive some of the awful things that he has done over the past year, maybe even learning to pronounce and spell his name correctly.

The biggest lesson here is that if this giant ball of suck can change, so can the rest of the team. Bye weeks are magical times, lets put this one to good use.

-Sota

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Go West Son

What up world,

As my former roommate pointed out recently, it has been a while since my last post. I thought that I would be okay once the Twins season was over, but apparently I'm still not over their loss quite yet. Plus the Vikes continue to play like a collective group of leffers, so it's hard for me to get excited and write about them. However, more than either of these things, I've taken a brief respite from writing due to my move out of the midwest.

I am now officially a resident of a Whale's Vagina, California. Really. I just sent in my change of address form. I've been contemplating the move for quite some time, and it has finally become a reality. I'm excited about being here, but there are certainly some drawbacks that I'm facing. Here is an alternating list.

Plus: I haven't seen a cloud in the sky yet and I've been here for almost a week. It's been in the 70's and absolutely beautiful, while Chicago is starting to turn into a poo storm of sleet and nipple-freezing cold.

Minus: My new roommate has a fake Christmas tree in the closet of the room that I'm staying in. When I saw it, the prospect of not having snow for the holidays hit me for the first time. I've never been in a location that doesn't have distinct seasons, so this could be a bit difficult for me.

Plus: There is a field that is close to my apartment where there are pick-up soccer games on a nightly basis. I will admit that I played soccer throughout high school, and the prospect of playing a pick-up game is very exciting.

Minus: In the same park where the soccer games take place, there are also quite a few gang members that hang out at the benches nearby. At least they look like gang members to me, and while they all look younger than I, they still scare the poop out of me.

Plus: I live in a city where there isn't a sports team that is a direct rival of the teams for which I cheer. I lived in Wisconsin during the Favre era and Chicago during the Bitch Sox World Series. It is nice to live in an area where I don't automatically hate a portion of the population.

Minus: I have lost God's gift to football fans in that I no longer have my roommates NFL ticket to watch every Sunday. I spent last weekend constantly checking scores on-line. I didn't get to see the feeding frenzy that was the Bears-Vikings game, which may have been a good thing. If I had watched the game, I may have broken the television, cut my roommate, and strangled a baby. I guess, in the end, I will give this a half negative point.

Plus: I have had the pleasure of stuffing my face with In-N-Out Burger and the most delicious burrito I have ever tasted since I made the move. The Mexican food is like an orgasm on a Styrofoam plate.

Minus: I will no longer be able to enjoy a steady diet of Vines or Ian's Pizza. I'm entering into withdrawal just thinking about it.

Plus: I will no longer have to smell my former roommates feet.

Minus: I will no longer get to smell my former roommates feet.

Final tally: Pluses 5; Minuses 4 1/2. It looks like I made the correct choice to make the move. Now, if I can somehow convince my new roommate to get the NFL, NBA, and MLB packages, the move will be ideal.

I will attempt to write something a little more sports-specific tomorrow. For my three regular readers, I will be better.

-Sota

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Antoine is a Ninja

What up world,

On Monday night, I settled down on my roommates couch and watched the Vikings bumble their way toward a victory against the New Orleans Saints. It was absolutely god awful to watch. If I were a Saints fan, I would have wanted to stab bunnies after seeing my team give that game away. The Vikings offense looked like they had been kicked in the balls prior to each play from scrimmage. Each time the ball was snapped, they would immediately fall to the ground and writhe in agony. It burned my eye-balls to watch it.

I needed four fantasy points out of Purple Jesus in order to win for the week. Four points, that was it. I understand that the Saints were putting their entire defense, several members of the coaching staff, a couple of fans, and the entire referee crew into the box, but Peterson could get four fantasy points if he were running without a foot, both arms, and carrying his mother on his back. I'm going to chalk this up to Purple Jesus spending his entire weekend rebuilding the remaining homes of New Orleans. Instead of renting those 'wide load' trucks, the city asked Adrian to lift and move the rebuilt houses on his shoulders. He was a little tired from the heavy lifting. I get that, but I need you AP. No more charity work while the fantasy football season is going, okay? Alright, we're cool.

The real key to victory for us, more than Bernard Berrian's big day, or the fairly solid performance of the defense, or Grundy Undies somewhat accurate throws , was the play of my boy Antoine Winfield. He was all over the place, single handily winning the game for the Purple. I don't know much about Antoine, other than the fact that he is tiny and awesome. I caught up with him after the game. Here's a quick recap of our conversation.

Sota: What it is Antoine? Great game on Monday.
Antoine Winfield: Thanks Sota. I was just doing my job.
S: Yeah right. I think you far exceeded your job expectations. Unless your defined role is to make quarterbacks wet themselves, or to look extra sexy scoring defensive touchdowns, or to be a little, stealth ninja out on the field.
AW: What? Who told you that?
S: What?
AW: That I was a ninja?
S: Nobody. I was just making things up. I was just trying to tell you that you had a great game, and that I plan on putting a life-size poster of you on my wall and having frequent conversations with it.
AW: Oh good, because if word got out there that I was a ninja, I would have to start killing people.
S: So you are telling me that you are an actual ninja?
AW: Yes, but that has to be our little secret. Nobody can know about this.

S: Okay, I understand. It's probably against ninja code to show your face right?
AW: Exactly. The Ninja Alliance, of which I am a co-founder, would not look too kindly on me revealing myself to millions of people each week. Plus, other quarterbacks would probably say that it's unfair for a ninja to be playing against them.
S: Well yeah.
AW: But if the Vikings didn't have a ninja on their roster, with a head coach as awful as ours, we would be the worst team in the NFL. It would be like a drunk house cat named Fluffles trying to teach the Ninja Turtles to fight, instead of Splinter.
S: Right. Good analogy. Well, I look forward to more of your ninja ways in the upcoming weeks. Maybe you can start your own Dojo in the caverns of the metrodome and secretly teach T-Jack to be a ninja of his own?
AW: I'm already working on it. We're also working on a secret plan to assassinate Chilli Willi with some of our throwing stars.
S: Nice, I'm on board. I'll keep your secret safe.

"The Ninja Alliance"

I couldn't help myself. I had to tell someone, but I'm asking you, the reader, to keep this secret as well. Here is a quick video of our favorite secret assassin while acting as commissioner of the Ninja Alliance.

-Sota

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Recovery

What up world,

It has taken some time for me to get over the loss that the Twins suffered last week. Last Tuesday night, as I was driving to the bar in Bloomington, I began thinking about the Twins season. At the beginning of the year, I thought that we would have a better team than many of the experts were saying, but I never thought that we would be in contention for a playoff spot. I thought that we would be better than the Royalty of Kansas City and better than the Sux of Chicago, but I didn't think that we could compete with the line-up of Detroit and the pitching of Cleveland. I would have never predicted that J-Ma would win another batting title, or that J-Mo would be in contention for another MVP, or Lil' Nicky would be more 2006 rather than 2007, or the pitching staff of younguns would be solid throughout the year, or that the bust known as Denard would transition to a fearsome beast known as Keiunta.

There were so many improbable things that happened throughout the year, that in the 20 minutes that it took me to get to the bar, I convinced myself that the Twins were capable of pulling off one more upset. Our little team that could was going to show the Sox that you didn't have to go yard in order to score runs. We don't need a ridiculous gimmick like a "black out" in order to win a game. We were going to show them how baseball is supposed to be played, with solid pitching, timely hitting, and mini superheroes.

I sat through nine innings, holding out hope that my pre-game pep-talk to myself would hold true. I had convinced myself that the team was just trying to build drama throughout the game before coming back to win. We were going to propel ourselves into the playoffs with a huge home run from the Canadian Mountee or a series of bloop singles from Team Scrappy. I kept telling myself this as the Twins continued to strike out and hit ground balls. We were going to win! I just knew it.......

Ugghhh. It still hurts to think about it. Looking back on it now, I recognize that I was lost amid the Kubler-Ross stages of grief in the days that followed the game. I went through a stage per day. Here is the breakdown.

Wednesday (Denial)

I spent the majority of the day trying to convince myself that it was better that the Twins were not in the playoffs and trying to convince others that I was doing okay. The following are actual quotes.

"At least now I won't have to spend so much time focusing on the team."
"I didn't cry last night. It was hot in the bar, and my cheeks were sweating."
"I'm fine. If I choose to drink myself into a stupor, it has nothing to do with how the Twins played."

Thursday (Anger)

I recognized that things were not okay on Thursday. Throughout the summer, I could always look forward to a game being played at least every other day. Thursday was the first time that it really hit me that the season was over, and I was pissed. I checked the baseball schedule in the morning and was consumed by rage. Instead of watching the Twins play that night, I was going to have to watch Chicago play in our place. Coupling the hatred of the White Sox that I already possessed with this newfound anger made my head explode into small pieces all over my parent's kitchen. I spent at least an hour of the day drawing profane pictures of AJ Pierzynski, which only caused me to become more irritated. I'm not proud of this:

Friday (Bargaining)

Watching the White Sox lose on Thursday made me feel a little better on Friday. I found myself starting to think about the offseason and coming to grips with what had happened. If the Twins, both players and front office personnel, take the season as a learning and growing experience, I will be okay with how it ended. If Go Go learns a little plate dicipline, Delmon learns how to field, and Billy the Kid doesn't throw mid-level contracts at mediocre talent, I might be able to recover from this dissappointment.

Saturday (Depression)

Utter sadness hit me on Saturday. It took the mediocre play of the Vikings, the performance of my college football team, and the prospect of another dismal Timberwolves season for me to realize what I was facing for the next 6 months. I have no hope of cheering for a team that has the possibility of success. I sucked my thumb for the majority of the day.

Sunday (Acceptance)

I arrived back in Chicago on Sunday. My fantasy football team failed to live up to my expectations yet again, but for the first time in over a week, I didn't let it affect my mood. A friend of mine told me a few weeks ago that he wasn't going to let sports dictate how he felt any longer. This was after watching our college football team lose and the Twins blow another game against Kansas City. I continued to drink myself into a blackout at the time, but I decided on Sunday to listen to his advice.

One cannot follow Minnesota sports without setting themselves up for an eventual, horrible dissappointment. We will always cheer for our teams, only to have our hearts ripped out in the end. It's like the scene from Temple of Doom. The White Sox, or the Packers, or the Spurs will always take their turn as the High Priest of Kali, holding our still beating hearts in front of our faces, while our team concludes yet another unsuccessful season.

So no longer will I live and die with the success of my teams. I will try and appreciate the wins, and let the losses slide. I will enjoy the journey, rather than the destination. I will try and recognize that there is more to life than following sports.

The Twins season is over. Onto the Vikings and T-Wolves. The Vikings take on Detroit next week. If they don't win and Purple Jesus doesn't have 850 yards rushing, I just might have to kill myself. Wait, killing myself might be a little extreme. Have I not learned anything from what I just wrote? I won't kill myself if the Vikings don't win, maybe just cut myself a little. Baby steps right?

-Sota