2009 has been a fun year in sports, and nobody has been more awkwardly involved than our sports editor David Breitman. Here are some of his random and, quite frankly, disturbing thoughts from the athletic (and not so athletic) world over the past few months.
Source: Rob Tringali/Sportschrome/Getty Images Sport/Getty Images
If you can call yourself an "actress" because you've been in a few student plays and attended film school, I can call myself a "hockey player" because I spend every Wednesday night in a very competitive Long Beach adult league and own all three Mighty Ducks movies on DVD.
Sportsbooks are posting record losses this year because everyone is making money. How's it feel, Vegas? I hope you have to eat nothing but Ramen noodles your sophomore year of college because the Baltimore Ravens decided to take a knee on 2nd and goal. (I swear to God, Kyle Boller I’m still coming after you!)
I think I actually spent less time picking a college or buying a house than I did on setting my fantasy football roster during Week 12.
It's always nice playing hockey in a rink that has barbed wire around the parking lot. That way the guy who stabs me for twenty-seven dollars will have a slightly more difficult time walking across the street to spend it at the yogurt shop or abortion clinic.
Apparently when a girl tells you "My dream is to be a Mom and raise a family," the correct response is not "Oh, so you have no professional ambition?"
Trying to defend the BCS to my Australian co-worker who has never watched college football (or understands how important corporate sponsorship and excluding the Big East is to the game) is proving rather difficult. The whole "doesn't everyone deserve a chance?" argument is difficult to combat.
There's nothing I love more than elderly people at a grocery store. If only Whole Foods sold "smell of death" and "two-for-one cottage cheese coupon"-scented candles, I could bring this experience home with me.
If my hockey pool went by the less conservative "point per time you slept with your teammate's wife" scoring format, Jeff Carter would be a much bigger asset to my fantasy team. (Finally, Chris Pronger - the guy who got a reporter pregnant when his wife was at home - is the second sleaziest guy in the locker room.) The NHL… where "At least we don't get arrested" happens.
How do normal, well-adjusted people without curling-related gambling debts deal with crippling depression when the tequila and hair gel run out? Is there a general "What the hell happened to my life?" support group that coincides with the NFL bye week I can attend, or perhaps a local wizard that can cast an apathy spell? (Not like a Hogwarts Valedictorian, maybe like the sorcerer equivalent of an ASU communications major?)
I know what you're thinking and the answer is yes... Albertan sex symbol Kevin Martin did win the Canadian Olympic curling trials this year - keeping his hopes of the sport's elusive Triple Crown alive. He's like the Albert Pujols of a sport I actually care about.
If taxis are going to have a "no vomiting out the window when you're drunk" policy they should at least make a mild effort to ensure that the vehicles don't smell like body odor and rotting goat carcasses.
After seeing a co-worker post pictures of his son dressed in a Minnesota Vikings "onesie" I finally realized the benefit of procreation - increasing the fanbase of your favorite sports team. (Every time a friend of mine back in Calgary knocks up a girl, instead of saying "thank God she's not Catholic," I'll immediately think "there goes a 2044 season ticket holder.")
Nice to see Los Angeles decided to have the most depressing, rain-filled evening ever on my birthday. It is, however, perfect weather for the emo hipsters in Silver Lake to talk about existentialism while refusing to get jobs and/or bathe. (One man's "This storm sucks, I want to kill myself" is another man's "This storm rocks! I totally want to kill myself because nobody gets me" weather.)
Getting a dirty look from the heavily-pierced waiter at Denny's when I asked if they served alcohol is an exciting new low for me. (IHOP doesn't have "unfair life judgments from community college dropouts" on their kids' menu.)
I don't care what any of my exes say, half price night at the Soup Plantation isn't just for emotionally crippled war veterans or people who have given up on basic human hygiene. It's where dreams come true! (Provided of course your dreams involve watching a homeless guy getting Tasered for stealing saltines.)
Not saying "You're the single worst thing to happen to the Calgary Flames" to Elisha Cuthbert is my biggest regret since attending that all-you-can-eat kitten bar. (Damn it, Cuthbert! If you were battling obesity and mild retardation you'd be Alberta's less interesting version of Jessica Simpson.) P.S. Huge fan of your ass.
Cheat on me once, shame on you.... Cheat on me 14 times with a collection of girls that look like they're straight off of Brett Michael's Rock of Love bus while making me look like a female version of Hilary Clinton and I'll take our children and half your money." Words of wisdom by Elin Nordegren (who, by the way, is now officially on the market!)
It appears I'm the only person on the planet who thinks the BCS is awesome. This is what it must feel like to be a fan of Joan Cusack, genital warts, or The Olive Garden. (Join a real F*****g conference, Boise State, or at least start offering unlimited salad and bread bowls at your games!)
I had an extra ticket to the Flames-Kings game in November. Nobody wanted to join 11,218 of the quietest hockey fans on the planet wonder why there's no first downs on the second inning power play, in an area of downtown Los Angeles that is working really hard to reduce the number of heroin overdoses and random immigrant stabbings.
I watched the civil war game between Oregon and Oregon State at an Oregon-themed sports bar, met a girl who referenced the Selke Trophy in casual conversation and went to a grocery store after my hockey game at 2:35 a.m. reeking like a Slovakian bomb shelter filled with wet garbage and Peja Stojakovic. Basically, I'm a road trip to Winnipeg away from living the dream.
Is it politically incorrect to go to a Home Depot to pick up a day laborer to fill in as a goalie in our street hockey game?
Stumbling out of a sports bar half drunk at 2:00 p.m. while a group of Rabbis walked passed me going the opposite direction may have been the most metaphorically symbolic thing to happen since that time I stopped along the highway in order to savagely beat a dead horse laying at a fork in the road.
During Thanksgiving I received 17 different “don’t try to celebrate our Holiday you dirty Canadian bastard” texts. I would have been offended, but the chance to gamble against both the Lions and Raiders on Turkey Day filled me with too much joy to feel upset.