Category: Sports

  • Missed Out on all the Stuff

    I don’t know what happened to me this weekend, but all the stuff I normally pay attention to, I completely spaced out on.

    It started on Saturday, when Tottenham played Arsenal. You know, their top rival, the team they hate. These matches even have their own title, “North London Derby.” Since I started follow Tottenham, these games have been a big deal, usually both teams are in a “need to win” position, and the games are exciting and dramatic. This Saturday, totally spaced on it. Just forgot.

    Same thing happen on Sunday, when I spaced on the Cowboy game against the Saints. But to be honest, the Cowboys played so bad, it was better that I missed it.

    And because comedy and drama both follow the rule of three…

    Then Sunday night, I forgot about the Emmy’s. When my wife pointed out that they were on, even my kid was surprised that I wasn’t watching them. (I am a sucker for an awards show.) It was like the Emmy’s snuck up on me and then I ignored them. (Though I did get to see that very weird Johnny Walker backstage bar moment.) Oddly, I had watched most of the shows that were nominated this year, so I sort of did know what was happening.

    Not that any of this really matters in the big scheme of things, yet I still found it odd that I whiffed on three events that normally are rather important to me. Such as I make plans to watch them. But for some reason, I missed all the ads for these things, or I missed the conversations about these things. It left me feeling like I was running behind everybody else.

    Just odd is all.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Gumbo, Cowboys, and Beer

    (I saw my problems, and I’ll see the light…)

    So, it doesn’t feel 100% like Autumn outside, but I’m not letting that stop me from cooking like it’s Fall. This is the season of baking, soups and stews. And I intend to go after my white whale, “Gumbo.” I have tried for a couple of years now to get it down, and even have one stellar recipe from a friend who used to live down in New Orleans. I have made gumbo with okra, with shrimp, crayfish, sausage, chicken, and everything else you can throw in. Yet, it still hasn’t come out the way I am looking for. The issue is me, I am the problem, and the real problem is that my roux never gets dark enough. I have got it down to sandy brown, an awful tan, maybe even khaki – all of them incorrect. No, I have to get my roux down to an intense chocolate color – dark brown. I have thought about this for awhile now, done research, and this is the weekend that I get my gumbo recipe down pat. I try to remember to take pictures.

    The Dallas Cowboys play on Sunday. This is the year. I have said that for twenty years, but this time I mean it. They will go 12-5, yet again. I will find a way to watch every game here in New York City, all the while I will get wall to wall coverage of the shitty Giants and somehow even shittier J-E-T-S. JETS! JETS! JETS!

    And I have bought beer, so I can sit on the couch all day on Sunday and watch football. I normally don’t do this, but something in my, most likely my beer belly, thought that I should do it. I have to agree.

  • ODDS and ENDS: Surprised I’m Here, Gotta Have Goals, and Sports

    (Nothin’ to do, nowhere to go…)

    I’m forty-seven years old. Not ashamed of my age, and other than a slight pot belly, I think I look rather good for my age. But for the life of me, when I was a kid, like nine years old, I never imagined that I would be this old. Well, sometimes I thought I’d be really old, like eighty, walking with a cane, shuffling around, being all grandpa like. No, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be in my twenties, and then, nothing. Thirty seemed like it was so far away, let alone forty. That some how, it couldn’t be possible that I would live that long. Not that I had some death wish, or believed I was doomed. No, it was more a matter of time. It’s time, the time it would take to become old seemed insurmountable. There just was no way that I could become that old… When I think about me at nine year old, I think he would be surprised that I am still here. And so bald…

    But the thing that makes getting older tolerable, is having a goal. Something to work towards, or look forward to. My Grandma Groff used to say that all the time when she would come and visit. That and it helps to have some spending money. But the goal thing, having something to accomplish, that has made a big difference if the last year for me. Not that it’s completely gone, but I don’t have that feeling of flounder much any more. That I’m just passing through my life, instead of being active in it.

    Growing up, we were a sports family, and then there was me; the un-athletic kid. I mean I tried. I tried my hand at baseball and basketball up through junior high. I really did love playing baseball, but I wasn’t athletically gifted; Batting ninth and right field were my lot. I took tennis lessons in high school, as my dad believed that we should do something physical, and not be a total loaf. I was pretty good at tennis, but I didn’t have the killer instinct for me to actually be competitive. After high school, I stopped playing any sort of sport. And then I had a daughter, who now is very into soccer. Which is cool, because I really like watching it. In my kid’s mind, watching soccer must mean that I know how to play soccer, right? I had written a week or so ago about helping the kid get ready for the soccer club try out. I enjoyed that, mainly because I was spending time with my daughter, but it was good being out and active. I also see in her mind’s eye that she is starting to think I am an athletic type of person. I enjoy this admiration I am receiving from her, but I know that in a year of two, it’s going to dawn on her how awkward and uncoordinated I really am.

  • ODDS and ENDS: She Called Me Old, Clothes Matter, and a Draw

    (Way down around Vicksburg…)

    I live in Harlem, and I love my neighborhood. I especially love my block. I have been here nearly twenty years, and we are all friendly and pleasant to each other. So, this morning, as I was crossing a busy intersection near my apartment, a person drove their car right through the crosswalk while me and a bunch of other people were crossing. Like I said, we are a friendly pleasant group of people around here, that is until someone does something stupid, like try to run us over. So, as this idiot was driving away, we all yelled at him, maybe gave some hand gestures, I don’t know, there were a lot of people. One of the people, an elderly woman who was moving slow, but was quick to disgust with that driver, turned to me and said, “Can you believe that person. Driving like that. No respect for us old people, like you and me.” And I said, “I know, what an asshole, and did you say I was old, because I’m just in my mid-forties.”

    I am going to say this about Kamala Harris, and her address to the DNC last night; She had the right clothes on. This is not some sexist statement about clothing and women, and being an object. No, this has everything to do with dressing for the job. She wants to be President, and she looked like The President. Out of everything that happened last night, and I do think she gave a great speech which set the correct tone for the final push of her campaign, I am aware that clothing is the last thought on anyone’s mind. But as she finished her address, she looked like the boss out there. She exuded that she could lead, and was ready. Whomever picked out that suit; good call.

    Tottenham drew its first match on Monday. So, they’re still undefeated going into week two.

  • The Kid’s Soccer Tryout

    I mentioned last week that the kid was invited to try out for her school’s traveling soccer team. In case you missed it, my daughter was very excited about this invitation, and wanted to start running soccer drills as to be prepared. I was equally excited to help out, and we ran soccer drills four days in a row, about an hour a day, to get her ready for the Saturday tryout.

    The kid was all psyched up, and ready to go. I was her kit man on this Saturday, as I had her cleats, towel, change of clothes, and water. The soccer field was attached to a school on the East side of Harlem, and on the walk over, the kid was telling me all the strategies she would deploy to make a good impression on the coaches. No matter what happened, she told me, she was going to do her best.

    When we made it to the school, there were about 28 to 30 girls that were there for the tryout. The coaches called out the names, the girls went in the gate to the field, and we the parents were left on the outside of the fence to watch.

    The coaches broke the girls up into teams of four, and had them play short ten-minute games. What I found odd was that, none of the coaches were paying very close attention to the girls. And when I say “paying attention” I mean they didn’t seem to be evaluating anyone’s skills. None of the coaches had clipboards, or anything to take notes. They just, kind’a, watched the kids, encouraged them to play and have fun, and every ten minutes, told the kids to take a water break. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting out of the coaches, but being that I am not a soccer coach, I reminded myself I should trust the people who are the coaches; I’m sure they know what they’re doing.

    Anyway, from my observation, the kids all just ran after the ball, sort’a clumped around it, and kicked wildly. There wasn’t a whole lot of “team” playing, so much as it was just kicking the ball at the goal, no matter who or what was in the way. Passing was rather non-existent.

    That’s not to say that there were two very talented girls out there. Like, heads and shoulders above the skill of the other kids. These two girls could dribble, and spin, and fake out, and kick – like really smash the ball. Like, we all knew they were making the team.

    As for the other girls, including my kid, they all had a blast out there. Just running, and kicking, and laughing, and screaming. They were having fun, and as the tryout wore on, maybe that was what the coaches were looking for – who is excited to be out there and playing.

    But I did keep some stats on my kid. She took five shots on goal, scored one goal, and -are you ready for this – passed the ball to an open player and got an assist. I was impressed. As far as I could tell, it was the only assist of the afternoon.