Last night was better. Obviously the onfield action wasn’t a high point, but the situation in the stands was much improved from the Disaster That Was Game Three. Texas Gal and I got what we expected as visiting fans, what we wanted all along–the right to root, root, root for the Red Sox without being cursed at, harassed, and treated like we’d committed some unforgivable, anti-Ohio sin like saying Drew Carey isn’t funny or that Bob Evans gives us diarrhea.
That said, I would like to thank everyone who let us just be Sox fans, who let us cheer and let us mourn without criticizing us for either one. Thank you to every Indians supporter who did nothing more than shout loudly for their team, a strong team that played another great game in what has been a magical season. That’s what we tried to do too. Continue reading
Even though he broke my heart, broke my crock pot, and eventually left me for a woman who wears slouch socks, my last boyfriend gave me something that I’ll cherish forever: bitterness. Bitterness and the opportunity to see my beloved Red Sox win the 2004 World Series.
On the night that the Sox beat the Yankees in the ALCS, completing their historic comeback and putting them in the Fall Classic for the first time since watching new episodes of 227 and Amen made for a sweet Saturday night, we had the following conversation:
Him: So tonight was pretty important?
Me: Hells yeah! The Sox won the ALCS!
Him: Isn’t that what Lou Gehrig had?
Me: No, that was Lou Gehrig’s disease.
When I was in the eighth grade, my family took a trip to Baltimore which I was, honestly, not looking forward to. It was one of those vacations disguised as a learning experience which, when you’re a kid, is the only thing more disappointing than watching a cartoon and realizing that there is a thinly-veiled religious message and that the talking zucchini may, in fact, be Jesus. My parents selected Baltimore as our destination because it is a city rich in American history, literature, and homicide. Actually, the latter was less a selling point and more an excuse to make me wear one of those child leashes in the rare case that there was an unhinged individual in our Fort McHenry tour group who would’ve flown into a rage at the sight of my crimped hair and pleated Duckhead shorts.
The early highlight of the trip was when the waiter at one restaurant gave me a theatrical wink and handed me a brochure for the aquarium. He’d written his name and phone number in black Sharpie on the shell of a sea turtle, undaunted by the fact that I was thirteen and on a leash. (Note to self: Start wearing leash again). On the last day, perhaps tired of stepping over chalk outlines or trying to delicately explain why I couldn’t have an “I Got Crabs in Maryland” t-shirt, my dad suggested that we go to an Orioles game.
I was totally unprepared for the hotness roaming the outfield that year, the hotness that was Brady Anderson. Those sideburns. Those biceps. The lack of tuberculosis (which made him infinitely more attractive than my previous Baltimore crush–Edgar Allen Poe–who admittedly should’ve been less desirable since he potentially had rabies. Oh, and was dead). Anyway, that day I fell hard for Brady, a man so hot he made my braces sweat. After the game, I immediately bought a #9 t-shirt and couldn’t wait to write “Dr. & Mrs. Brady Anderson” on my Trapper Keeper, because I was sure that he would attend classes at night and eventually become the best-hitting neurosurgeon in his practice group. Continue reading
That’s right. The Ladies… are the Deadspin guest editors this weekend.
You’re welcome to join us. Just look with your eyes, not with your hands.
There are eleven McDonald’s within a ten mile radius of my apartment, all of which have identical hours. They all open at 5 a.m. and close at 2 a.m. which means that every day, I have twenty-one hours and almost a dozen options for getting a Big Mac (and perhaps some Apple Dippers). This also means that the only time I ever want a Big Mac is approximately 3:28 a.m. For my entire life, I’ve noticed that I only ever really want the things that I can’t have, which explains why I’ve always developed irrational crushes on married celebrities (Good morning, Hugh Laurie!), why I blow out the candles on each birthday cake while silently wishing I would grow a tail (for myriad reasons, all to be explained upon request), and why every time I lose a 10-K (which is every time I run a 10-K), I long to be a born-again Kenyan.
Today’s Hit and Run is filled with athletes who all want stuff that they aren’t going to get either, and you readers probably all want transitions that aren’t quite as lazy as that one.
Take, for example, the round one leader of the PGA Tournament, Graeme Storm, he of the most spell-checked name in the field (although phonetically, it’s pretty sweet and by “pretty sweet”, I mean “sounds like he may have starred in Orgy Party 6“). He’d just like to get through the rest of the weekend without soiling his pants, being mistaken for a Harry Potter character, or have every mention of his name followed by the word “Who?” I’d like to see Greaeaeameae to at least make the cut…he could probably use his winnings to buy an extra consonant or two. Continue reading
As sports fans, we know the hyperbole that can surround a game, as seasons are seemingly made or broken between the buzzers. Today for the first time those exaggerations seemed an understatement. Today we in the athletics community truly suffered a devastating loss.
We at Ladies… would like to extend our deepest sympathies to the family of Wake Forest coach Skip Prosser, to his current and former players, and to anyone who had the honor of having known him.
Coach Prosser, you will be missed.
Well tomorrow’s the big day. If you’re like me, you’ve already made a t-shirt, bought plenty of pudding, and cannot wait for 8 p.m. to get here so you can finally watch what you’ve waited months for: the American premiere of Ghost Cat on Animal Planet.
I kid! I kid! Unless you fell down a well, have been kidnapped and bound by Kathy Bates or are my mother, you know that on Saturday David Beckham
will won’t will make his MLS debut. But he won’t be starting and his playing time may be minimal, so you can enjoy the synchronicity that comes from knowing that you and Becks are watching the same game at the same time! Stars are just like us! Except he’d probably be less likely to skip his Rooms-to-Go payment this month.
So here’s your wrap of all-things Golden Balls… Continue reading