A Six Year Old on Skates

Not every derelict college student has a six-year-old brother. Some do, but those cases are rare, and generally limited to the older brother variety of the derelict species. I am, as befits my variegated and diversely endowed existence, a member of that particular strain.

A six-year-old brother is an uplifting if tedious addition to just about any activity imaginable, particularly in the summertime when classes are out and teachers have relinquished their tyrannical but protective custody over the student's mind. Actually, the custody is never relinquished at all. It is turned over to the brother. This transfer of authority became especially clear to me on a particular day last month, as I watched the brother wobble out onto an ice-skating rink. He was doing a good job, I thought, watching him coast a few feet at a time. He showed excellent coordination for the very brother who had an attention deficit so extreme that he couldn't hold a violin under his chin without forgetting it was there and dropping it to the floor for my mother's special enjoyment, and who was always up at six in the morning, eager to conduct a frenzied chat that would frazzle all impatient nerves.

In fact, he was skating so well that I concluded that there couldn't be much to the feat. If the six-year-old brother could do it, anyone probably could. In fact, if the six-year-old brother could do it I probably could. So I rented a pair of skates.

It wasn't as if I expected to be a virtuoso. I had never worn skates before, and I knew attaining a graceful air would take a bit of practice. So I sat for a while at the edge of the ice, watching the advanced skaters waltz and frisk along the shimmering surface. I observed how one foot would gracefully fall in front of the other as they rounded turns. I noticed how they stepped into their allotted trajectories with forward momentum, not backwards thrust. I even noticed the deft little flicks of the blades that sped the skaters along backwards whenever they wished to speak to their partners behind them without stopping. Now, I just needed to implement my new knowledge.

Soon I felt confident enough to try on the size-fourteen behemoths that had been silently handed to me by a dubious-faced youth behind the counter. I removed my shoes (vulgar things they now seemed!) and began with the laces to ascend a Matterhorn of holes and hooks that seemingly stretched up to heaven, or at least to my knees. Who wouldn't feel a bit overconfident after completing a task like that?

They don't tell you this until you've already burned the bridges, but outside of their intended environs, skates are very awkward things to walk in. They're generally leather and universally rigid, allowing no ankle movement at all, which presents many difficulties to the skater. First, there is the necessity of either goose-stepping or brass-band-marching across the floor before reaching the ice. This is not pleasant in the presence of ruddy-faced gliders and ecstatic waltzers who were apparently born in skates (talk about a painful pregnancy!). Second, balance on the ice can be achieved only by an uncomfortable standing squat, or by bending over backwards and falling on one's tail bone. I am a proponent of the former option, but only in theory.

My brother was finishing his lesson as I stepped onto the glassy circle, but I was glad he still had a few minutes left of watching his teacher instead of me. I grasped the wall for my life, and took one step, one thrust, one stumble at a time. I had wondered why that little boy's legs seemed a bit shaky. Now I understood. But I was determined, and I gradually let go of the wall and began to learn to skate. "It's just like roller-skating," I told myself, which felt like encouragement at the time because I had forgotten how bad I was at roller-skating. I took a few steps, threw my weight forward, and fell on my tailbone. The six-year-old brother came gliding up beside me. "Take little steps," he said, his cherubic face denying my planned retort. I got up, and he showed me how to spread my feet apart: "This is how you stop."

He glowed with energy. "You're doing really good for your first time. When everyone is done, a truck comes out and puts snow all over the ice to make it smooth. Did you know what Nick and I do? We watch the water come out of those little gates. Are you going around again?" Indeed I was. I worked around the rink a few more times until I started to get the hang of it. Once again the brother glided along side of me, slowing down so he wouldn't pass me by. "Put your hands out like you're holding a table," he said. I did, but it didn't help. He sped off.

It was then that I resolved in my heart of hearts to skate faster than he did. His legs were not even half the length of mine, and I put mine to work. I skated doggedly for half an hour. Epic theme songs welled in my head, interrupted only every thirty seconds or so when my brother meandered out in front of me and I had to slow down so he could tell me about the crackers we had waiting for us when we got done, or the teenage Olympic candidates who would come to practice later, or his teacher or his sister or his cousin or his toys.

At the end of the half hour I felt like I was getting pretty regular. My brother was in front of me again, but this time instead of slowing down to talk I stepped around him and started off as fast as I could. He came up beside me, gazed at my feet in his hyper way, and gave me a tip. "Take little steps and glide," he said and demonstrated, shooting far ahead of me. I stopped, panting. "How did you do that?" I asked. He showed me: "Like this." I tried to do it. I could not.

Then, with heavy spirits, I knew that I had to leave the rink. I was defeated, and my pride lay on the field as wounded as my tailbone. But as I turned toward the door, so did everyone else. The open session was over, and the truck was coming to smooth the ice for those Olympic candidates. I was saved by the bell.

Commenting on the Commentators

As an avid sports fan, I get to know famous broadcasters almost as well as the personalities on the court, which is to say I develop a very strong superficial knowledge of their habits and behavior. No time is better for acquainting oneself to the idiosyncrasies of commentators than March Madness, the NCAA basketball tournament when a new broadcaster greets the listening ear for just about every game. Legends like Jim Nantz and Billy Packer join characters like Dick Vitale to provide a stunning ensemble cast.

Unfortunately, sometimes these gentlemen can be difficult to understand. They use a vernacular native to jocks and junkies that is foreign to everyone else. They think, I am sure, that they are easy to understand, but to the untrained ear their gibberish is as comprehensible as the three year old graffiti beneath the Miller bridge. Here at FCN, we took out a pen and paper during the games and jotted down our favorite lines from the various presenters along with an explanation. Here they are, followed by a translation in parenthesis:

"Heeeee's got the triple!" (Three-point basket)
"Stops, pops; it's in." (Pull-up jump shot)
"Rejected!" (Blocked shot)
"Not this time!" (Blocked shot)
"Say goodbye and hello to the second row" (Emphatically blocked shot)
"Woah! That's the strongest weak side help I've seen today" (A Jim Nantz favorite)
"Gentle kiss and in." (Bank shot)
"Double smooch off the glass." (A Dick Vitale favorite, when the ball rolls on the rim and touches backboard before falling into the basket)
"Count it" (Scored shot)
"They've really been struggling from the charity stripe." (Team has a poor free throw percentage)
"Got the step..." (A player is beginning a drive to the basket)
"...found a lane..." (A player has found a lane to the basket)
"...he dishes it out..." (A player passes to another player)
"...he kicks it out..." (A player passes to another player after driving toward the basket)
"Rocks...pops." (Kobe Bryant - or similar ball hog - has the basketball)
"All the way to the hole." (A player completes a drive with close shot)
"What a moment!" (Jim Nantz is amazed by something on the court. This happens often.)
"Trifecta" (Three point basket)
"Super scintillating sensational!" (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court)
"Slap a lapper." (Dick Vitale is excited by something on the court and wants to put his job at risk)
"Dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam, baby!" (Dick Vitale actually said that)
"...baby" (Dick Vitale is trying to be cute while using the same line he started using in 1979)
"Foam the runway, this guy is on fire!" (A player has been making a high percentage of his shots or otherwise been playing well recently)
"Freeze it." (Used during instant replay to draw audience's attention to a particular detail)
"Send it in to the big fella'" (A color commentator's instructions to consider a low post move)
"Rise and fire." (A jump shot. Use of this line got a commentator fired. Incomprehensible, I know)
"Turn out the lights." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"The party is over." (One team has lost any chance of winning the game)
"Oh my." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Boom." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line often deployed after a dipsy-doo dunkeroo slam-jam-bam)
"'Nuff said." (A particularly eloquent play-by-play line)
"Yesssssssss." (Used late in a game after an important basket is scored)
"He puts the biscuit in the basket." (A player scores)
"Threeee-cola." (Three point basket)
"This freshman has ice in his blood." (The stress of the game is not registering in a young player's behavior)
"He's cooler than the other side of the pillow." (The stress of the game is not registering in a player's behavior)
"As good as it gets." (Jim Nantz after Florida won its first national championship)
"From downtown..." (Three point shot attempted)
"Bang!" (A player scores)
"Sweet sassy molassy." (Contrary to popular opinion, line is actually used in men's games to denote respect in a player's recent move)
"Oh, baby, what a play." (Sometimes used by broadcasters other than Dick Vitale)
"Tickie-Tack." (A player is called for an "unnecessary" or ill-advised foul)
"Right between the eyes." (A player scores)
"That's levitation." (An athletic shot block)

And that's just a sampling. To get the rest, you will have to watch the Sweet 16 round of March Madness this weekend.

18-1

You would have to be socially illiterate to not have heard that the New York Giants upset (meaning narrowly defeated) the New England Patriots on football's grandest stage, Sunday. And you would have to be deaf to miss my screams of pained agony at the demise of my team.

The Patriots, after putting on the best 18 game streak in football history, finally fell prey to a "physical defense and its own gunslinging mentality," or so the sports "experts" tell us. The fact is that there were a lot more factors playing toward a Giants victory than Peyton Manning whispering hints to his brother from the sky box.

Here at FCN, we put together a team of crack sports scientists to investigate the real reasons behind the heartbreaking defeat of football's hottest playboy.

1) Gisele Bundchen

When Tony Romo took a vacation during his playoff bye week with celebrity girlfriend Jessica Simpson down to a hip Mexican vacation spot, Dallas Cowboys fans the nation over commented on what a disastrous move he was making. Then the innocent Jessica attended the"big" game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the NFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Three weeks later, Tom Brady took a vacation during his playoff bye week to go visit celebrity girlfriend Gisele Bundchen in New York City. Patriots fans watched in horror as the entire escapade, yellow flowers and all, was broadcast over TMZ, an acronym standing for "Time Much Zwaisted." Then the innocent Gisele attended the big game, "distracting" the all-pro quarterback into a sub-par performance. That match ended up a headline grabbing upset, as the top seed in the AFC lost to the wild-card Giants.

Sound familiar?

The reality is that this isn't coincidence. The writer's guild ("striking now at a studio near you") is behind the efforts to derail high profile athletes with buxom blonde females. The guild knows that television shows are facing stiff competition for air time from sporting events and it is doing everything in its power to slow the rise of televised athletics (which many commentators view as insidious as reality TV) while the big shows are playing reruns. It's a giant (pun intended) conspiracy to indict celebrity quarterbacks and thereby reduce their star power. And the really scare thing is: It's working.

In case you are really into this sort of gossip mongering, an onling gambling site is inviting wagers on who will break up first: Romo-Simpson or Brady-Bundchen. Before the loss, I would have staked the lives of my unborn children on Romo-Simpson. Now I think it's a toss-up.

2) The Twelfth Man

NFL rules require that no team can have more than eleven players on the field at once. The Giants tried to get away with twelve during one play, but the zebras caught onto their ploy and threw a yellow flag (after Bright Red Hoodie - see below - threw a red flag). By "twelfth man," I am actually referring to the audience members who are watching the game and, presumably, rooting for the Patriots.

I say "presumably," because of the eleven people watching the game at my house (or phoning in their support before the game), five were cheering for New York and six were routing for the Patriots. You couldn't have gotten a more even distribution without a hack saw. Instead of cheering the Pats to victory, our twelfth man contributed nothing and might have even dampened the mood in Arizona for the favored squad.

3) The Ugly Bright Red Hoodie

Bill Belichick has gotten away from some frightful wardrobe decisions in the past (like stuffing his red challenge flag in his white athletic socks and wearing these obscene shorts). He reminds me of me in High School. Heck, he reminds me of me now. Gregg Easterbrook talks about the "gods of football" which determine who will win or lose big games. Well, the gods of football couldn't have shined on such television inappropriate garb as the Ugly Bright Red Hoodie.
In today's age of televised drama, colors are important. And red is out. Also, the head coach and the offensive coordinator (Josh McDaniels, to the left of Belichick in the above photo) have to match. That's a rule the NFL is considering as an addition to the uniform and wardrobe regulations for next year. And, that guy in the back biting his shirt. Not good. Not good at all.

4) The Cheating Giants

I know this is a heavy charge to levy with such little and circumstantial evidence, but, hey, that didn't stop the Patriot's critics. Why should reality stop FCN? Let facts be submitted to a candid world:

FACT: Peyton Eli Manning's miraculous completion to David Tyree was precipitated by a vanishing act in front of the Pat's offensive line. As David Blaine would say: Magic.
FACT: David Tyree caught a ball thrown 40 yards away with nothing but his helmet. Research of the taps is continuing to see whether Tyree used an adhesive or a magnet to complete this "amazing" pass. Either way, both products are banned by the NFL for in-game use.
FACT: Peyton Manning (Eli's older brother, who had never enjoyed the national spotlight before Sunday) placed his head in his hands while the ball was in the air. We don't know for sure how that impacted the ball's flight path, but we know it had something to do with the end result.

Don't think it was cheating? Check out this video documentation and tell us in the comment section how else such a feat could have been accomplished:

Impossible. I wish you could see me shaking my head right now.

5) Bad Ads

It's common knowledge in the sports world that good ads favor the team from the smaller media market. It has to do with NFL conspiracy theories and Budweiser's secret ties to Roger Goodell's sister-in-law's parents and some extortion that happened years ago but is now very well covered up. It's all very boring and nerdy.

New York is a bigger media market than Foxborough. Admit it: If it weren't for the football team, you wouldn't even know that Foxborough existed, much less where it is.

Now take a look at the ads: For a second consecutive year, Salesgenie.com embarrassed itself and its stockholders with a couple of CEO written ads that induced more cringes than chuckles, at least where I was sitting. GoDaddy.com ran another ad that tried to be raunchy, but came just shy. Even the normally reliable Budweiser disappointed.

The only good add that aired was Pepsi Max's and, consistent with FCN's conspiracy theory, the Patriot's scored a touchdown almost immediately after it was played. Here it is again in case you missed it:



6) Massachusetts was sunk before the opening kickoff

What do John Kerry, Mitt Romney and Tom Brady have in common? All three of them are from the Bay state and have failed to meet expectations. Kerry's political nosedive in the 2004 elections and Romney's inability to get traction should have been a heads up to savvy football observers. We should have seen this coming. The Red Sox notwithstanding, Massachusetts teams have been ho-hum this year. Boston College didn't make the national championship after a promising start. Kerry couldn't win against Bush after a whipping up a lot of momentum. And Tom Brady was flat when it really counted.

The jury is still out on Romney - he may yet redeem Massachusetts - but things don't look good for the rich white Mormon (If you really feel that way, go vote! Now, before the polls close).

To extend this logic a bit further, the Boston Celtics will not win an NBA championship this year. That's right folks, the big three will not perform when it really matters. You heard it here first!

The Day I Smashed My Proboscis

I have promised, somewhere in the annals of CN past, to tell the faithful few more about my nose. The exact wording was that it would be a “great topic for another post.” As is my habit, I had completely forgotten about that pledge and was ready to write today about the beauty and grace of undersea turtles, when I was violently reminded of my commitment.

By violent, I mean Hoss sucker punches Little Joe not Brad Pitt and company in Fight Club. You guys have plenty of reasons to be worried about me, but violent rages are not one of them.

Anyway, I was playing basketball yesterday at the gym and taking on the local Arab community which apparently sees hoops as a cultural passtime. You know the scene: A bunch of sweaty twenty-somethings whose little social interaction is the high fives and crude taunts of community ball. If I were of Arabian descent, I would fit in perfectly.

The team that was dominating when I arrived consisted of two super tall college students one of whom could dunk from a standstill, a wizened old man who continues to play only because he has no other life but makes up for it by having a great perimeter shot and a girl. Yes, a female had broken the sanctity of male dominated hoops culture and deigned to play our game.

I hate to say it, but she was good. As I watched the game from the sidelines, taking an occasional warmup shot and stretching periodically to keep my joints lubed, I saw her juke an experienced player for an easy lay-in, pop a perimeter trey while an opponent had a hand squarely in her space and make some awesome ball handling decisions that set up her teammates for easy baskets.

Maybe it was that she jinxed her opponents or maybe her opponents were distracted (if you get my meaning), but it seemed that quality players turned to raspberry Jello as soon as they assumed the defensive posture against her. Predictably, those watching the game would issue snide and sexist remarks at the expense of the player who got “fooled by the girl,” but my attention was focused on the competitive side.

She favored her right hand, shot from the chest like a WNBA player and telegraphed her shots with a long face up. Her defense was tolerable, but she was slow. If her defender guarded against the right side drive and watched closely for the sign of an impending shot, her play might not be so hot. On offense, quick penetrations and perimeter ball teases might use her own court sense as a weapon to open up driving lanes and maybe allow for the occasional deployment of my favorite move, the pull up jumpshot.

She was good, but I felt she was beatable.

As I took the court and waited for the next game to begin, I stood next to the girl, a nonverbal message to my teammates that she was the person I wanted to guard. She introduced herself as Cindy and we did the athlete's version of a handshake: a firm but soundless handslap that occurs about roughly waist height. Eye contact is optional. There isn't any version for girls, so I used the guy-guy greeting.

My first touches of the game were terrible embarrassments. Somehow Cindy was able to reach in during one of my cross-over teases and poke the ball away for a steal and an easy breakaway lay-in. On the next possession she blocked my pull-up, stuffing the ball back in my face and earning a series of catcalls from the sidelines. I was embarrassed and my team was losing. But none of that was as bad as what followed.

With the game close, we were having success in the low post, banging the ball in low with our big man, an overweight kid from the East side of town named Troy (He was probably named Mohamed, but they called him Troy so as to not confuse him with the other Mohameds) . I dribbled into the front court, fed the ball to Troy and then waited on the perimeter as a kick-out option. Troy did a spectacular post move but his shot landed short on the rim and I ran toward the hoop for the offensive rebound.

What followed was a collision. I don't remember all the details of the smash, but I do know that it involved Cindy and Troy, was about two and a half feet off the ground and that my nose was at the very center. I felt a squish sound – not a crack, but a squeak, like a tire rapidly deflating – and heard gasps from those the sideline spectators. Time stood still for a second and then I landed hard on my rump, creating a bruise as colorful as it was painful.

My younger brother has twice broken his nose and I was present for both occasions, so I am familiar with the circumstances that surround protuberance fractures: One bone is pulled loose from another and the schnoz assumes a shape quite dissimilar from the one it used to claim. A little blood and swelling are inevitable side effects.

But my schnoz wasn't broken. When I inspected my nose in the mirror after the game (which we lost, in case you had to rub it in), I didn't feel any swelling or bone irregularity. The the cartilage was stretched and blowing my nose was painful, but the bones were just as sturdy and stable as before. You really thought I broke it, didn't you?

For shame.

I really think my feat of physical sacrifice earned me respect from the other guys. They all wanted to see my bruise and several were complimentary about my nasal swelling. One guy even said I had "hops," which is pretty rare "for a white guy."

In retrospect, however, I wasn't completely satisfied with the game; I think I would have sacrificed my nose, if only I'd beaten that girl.