The Mariners’ pitchers and catchers reported last weekend (I guess they need lots of extra practice), almost everyone else reports this weekend — baseball is almost back but we’re still a few weeks from even exhibition game play. Never fear, I have the perfect book for those of you who need a real-game-action-fix now: The Baseball Codes by Jason Turbow with Michael Duca. (The book was released in 2010 so I’m a bit behind. Blame my brother who “meant” to get me this as a present last year, then never got around to sending it to me. He did get me two books this year, of which this was one.) Most baseball fans know of the existence of most of these rules, but few realize how far some players go to enforce them — nor how saturated the day-to-day business of the major leagues is with the business of teaching, following, enforcing, and (as sometimes proves necessary) breaking these unwritten codes.
One year ago, a group of female Deadspinners got together and built a website that would forever alter the sportswriting landscape. Some delusions of grandeur, but whatevs.
Artwork, as always, by the one, the only, the incomparable Lady J-Money, who credits our success to the quality of our ingredients.
When we last saw our heroines, we were raising glasses to six months of this contraption. Since then….where to start? We got out of the house a little, and brought a few friends along for the ride. We stirred up a couple hornets’ nests and got our knees dirty. We launched a blatant homerism lovefest and let lust rule our fantasy drafts. We went undercover with the Mets and the Mitchell Report and got inside with the Tigers. We turned back time and had ourselves a total eclipse of the heart. We pledged our hearts to the World Series, and just about killed ourselves trying to get there, and just about GOT ourselves killed once we were…but that all worked out just fine, didn’t it? We got down and dirty with the history of Rock and championed the little guys. We came heroically close to covering every single bowl game. We said fond farewells to a fine crop of college boys, and found new targets for next year.
And the snacks. Oh, TSW’s snacky goodness. The legendary Buffalo Chicken Dip. The homemade corn dogs. The 9-Layer Ranchero Dip, K2 of snack foods. Pork with more pork. The genesis of our quiche obsession. The other Ladies got into the act, to the tune of Pudding Shots, Beer Bread, Cheese Straws, and a variety of meats and cheeses.
We celebrated (properly) the apex of football season (and then some), and marked the turning of the sports season. We got our gamble on. We gave thanks, wished on our stockings, spread holiday cheer and strove to be better fans. We found humor in the worst of times and stood up for boobs everywhere. We rassled and clawed and even screwed each other.
After the jump, some poetic and prosaic reflections on our year together.
Holly: NOW IS THE SEASON OF MANNING.
TSW: Short of the Steelers winning SB XLII, this is best outcome. (And I am proud that three out of the four Ladies who made picks, picked the Giants.)
Clare: I cannot believe what I have just seen.
TSW: So glad it wasn’t a blow out. I cannot believe how many people said this game was going to be lame.
Andrea: WOOOOOOOOO!!!!! Best Super Bowl since Rams/Titans! Holy crap! WOOOOOOOO!!!! [falls over, asleep]
Game time! Kegerator primed? Fridge stocked? Ambulance on speed dial? Excellent. Join us after the jump for our weekend plans, favorite gambles, predictions, and pictures of grown men looking goofier than Eli Manning (no, seriously).
Sadly, we cannot claim responsibility for this artistic masterpiece.
Saturday was our last chance to lay eyes on many of our NCAA honeys before the draft. Who sizzled? Who fizzled? Who’ll be fielding calls from scouts, and who’ll be sitting at home crying with their hair in hot rollers (or, as Brady Quinn calls it, “Thursday”)?
HOT: Erik Ainge, QB, Tennessee.
Michael Cera in Superbad. Justin Long in Dodgeball. Seth Rogen in Knocked Up. We pull for these guys to get the girls, because who doesn’t love a little pluck and moxie in a man? After the jump, find out why Holly and J-Money have given their hearts to New York and San Diego for the duration of the playoffs.
Sometimes you watch college football and think, “Gee willikers! This is so exciting! Balls are just a’flying every which way! Anything can happen!”
Sometimes you watch college football and think, “Jesus fucking christ, it is the opening kickoff and they cannot catch the ball. MORE. GIN. NOW.”
This is the logo for the Texas Christian University Horned Frogs. You do not need to see the bowl logo, or to know anything else about tonight’s matchup (because it’s at 8:00 on a Friday night on the NFL Network; you won’t even see the damned thing), apart from the following:
I feel like the delivery boy in Big Daddy, except instead of screaming, “He get all da easy ones!” I’m screaming, “They get all da exciting ones!” Seriously. So far we’ve had a great Utah/Navy that came right down to the wire and last night BYU tips a game-winning field goal to hold on against UCLA. Very exciting stuff. The New Mexico Bowl? Not so much.
Why do they put the logo over the skyline of Albuquerque?
That is so ugly!
It is with pride and trepidation that we announce our bowl season coverage:
Yes. We’re covering them all. What could go wrong?
From the Poinsettia this afternoon to the mythical title game in January, we’ll be bringing you a preview or wrap-up of every single Division I-A postseason match. Stay tuned!
From the moment he donned that purple cap on draft day, Adrian Peterson was anointed (and from the looks of this shot, dipped in wax) as a key player in the future of the Vikings gameplan. And while he appears quite capable of carrying the team on his back (particularly after this weekend), Minnesota brass seem content to split his playing time with Chester Taylor. Are there still doubts about the solidity of his previously injured collarbone? Are they giving the rookie more time to assimilate the schemes? Or just taking it easy on their brand new toy? Whatever the reason, it may be falling by the wayside. Hard to miss AP this weekend, but just in case your memory’s fuzzy, he was the guy barreling down the field with Chicago defenders flopping behind him like tin cans tied to a car bumper. Twenty carries, 224 yards, three touchdowns, on the way to a 34-31 win over the Bears. Here’s hoping Chester Taylor rides the pine next week, as a red-blooded woman and a football fan…Peterson’s a hell of a lot of fun to watch on the field, and ain’t bad on the eyes, either.
Oh. Oh, last week sucked. (Hush your filthy mind; that’s after the jump.) Fifty percent of the Ladies saw their beloved college teams fall. Of course, we were in good company…everyone who’s anyone was on the losing end of the scoreboard. The top 25 is full of pretenders and upstarts. Chaos reigns, and I’m not just talking about my twisted sheets. I’ve been battling the nervous giggles of survivor’s guilt since Saturday night–my Vols had their usual bye date bumped up two weeks this year and I’m ridiculously grateful.
But it’s a new day. A new week. And if the college football gods are off their bender, a return to some semblance of order and right. Let’s take this morning to wipe the slate clean, and get down and dirty with our vanquishers. Join us, won’t you?
Can it be we’re a month into the season already? That’s a lot of ticks on the scoreboard. A lot of swigs from smuggled flasks. A lot of stolen kisses in the quad, and a lot of notches on our bedposts from our Saturday morning purge romps.
Most of the Ladies’ teams had good outings, but Andrea’s Iowa Hawkeyes fell in a tooth-and-nail slugfest to Wisconsin…and two weeks later, it’s time to move past Florida and the throttling they handed down to my Tennessee Vols. Get comfy, boys, I’ll want to be on top for this.
You have only to look at my PEYTON MANNING IS A GOD THAT WALKS ON EARTH posts to know where my NFL loyalties lie, but on Sundays when it’s time to suit up, the royal blue jersey I’m rocking isn’t his. Or Marvin Harrison’s. Or Reggie Wayne’s, or Vinatiereireiri’s. It’s number 83, and the guy who used to wear it is a quiet, unassuming slot receiver named Brandon Stokley.
Any girl who says barfights are anything but a) hilarious or b) hilariously awesome is a) a liar, or b) not someone I want to be friends with. We’re not waving our hands and yelling “STOOOOOOPPIT BOYS” to affect the action; it’s kind of a war cry and mating call. We’re declaring that THAT IS OUR MAN OUT THERE BY GOD LOOK AT HIM GO. This is all by way of saying: Nothing gets me hot and bothered like a football rival getting his ass leveled.
I give you Rico McCoy, via preeminent Tennessee blog Rocky Top Talk. Is it hot in here, or is it just Jeremy Young’s jersey melted to his back?
Blood season begins in earnest tonight. Last weekend was glorious, but without a lazy NFL Sunday of lolling and snacking to follow Saturday’s CFB whirlwind, it’s just not the same. In a few hours, the WORLD CHAMPION Indianapolis Colts welcome the New Orleans Saints to the RCA.
For me, this means four hours of screaming my lungs to shreds and basking in the reflected glory of one Mister Peyton Manning (time to reference that disclaimer again, I suppose). For the rest of you, well, this is Ladies, and I know why you’re here. It’s a marquee night; let’s have a look at some marquee manflesh:
I was thrilled to my orange-painted toes to learn my beloved Vawls were playing Cal for their season opener. Since they had come all the way to the west coast (like they were coming just to see me!), I thought the least I could do was make the trip up to Berkeley to meet them.
Any girl who says barfights are anything but a) hilarious or b) hilariously awesome is a) a liar, or b) not someone I want to be friends with. We’re not waving our hands and yelling “STOOOOOOPPIT BOYS” to affect the action; it’s kind of a war cry and mating call. We’re declaring that THAT IS OUR MAN OUT THERE BY GOD LOOK AT HIM GO. This is all by way of saying: Nothing gets me hot and bothered like a football rival getting his ass leveled. Expect a lot of material about jacked-up guys in tight pants getting (sorry) jacked up once the season really gets underway. To whet your appetite, here’s the greatest hits of seasons past, via the incomparable (and handsome!) Sunday Morning Quarterback: