It must be magic

I've been sucked into the World Cup. Maybe because I have a bracket to worry over. Especially now that my family has started a new tradition of prizes for the best bracket.

So I present to you several reasons why I don't like soccer and 1 reason I can't keep my eyes off of it.

I don't like soccer because:

1.) The field is too big and the players look like wee people,
2.) It is basically 90 to 120 minutes of failure. They shoot, they miss, the shoot again, they miss, they pass, it's intercepted, they pass again, intercepted again. And run and run and run and run and never get anywhere. Failure all over the place.
3.) Even though off-sides has been explained to me I still don't get it. Oh, I can tell you the details of it, but I can also tell you the details of how airplanes fly. The details don't stop me from being mystified.
4.) The players annoy me with all their fakery. I want to yell at them, "Get up, you big baby!" because enough with all the rolling around and grabbing your leg and whining. (Says the girl who cries when she gets a splinter.)
5.) The commentators don't yell "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL" on ESPN.

I can't keep my eyes off of it because:
1.) It's magic. No, seriously. It has to be some kind of weird voodoo because why would I enjoy watching men I can hardly make out spend 90 minutes basically not doing their job - which is to get the ball in the goal. And yet every time I sit down to watch a game I can barely turn away long enough to get myself another OtterPop.*

*As this is the second consecutive mention of OtterPops I would like to inform you that Katie found JUMBO OTTERPOPS at CostCo. I had to have two tonight to rehydrate myself after all the crying I did over a book. Now that is magic.

Amendment following this morning's game: CURSE YOU THE NETHERLANDS!!!!!!!! You have single handedly KILLED my bracket. Oh, Brazil, I had such hope.

The Boilermakers Take it All

It is well documented how little I like basketball. Watching tall men shoot baskets in between long successions of fouls is a soul-sucking activity for me. But I like sports in general and I dislike college ball slightly less than I dislike the NBA and I can get into championships of just about any sport (minus the NBA - seriously, I find it so unlikeable) because I like to see people win. So on Sunday night, for the first time in my life, I filled out one of those March Madness bracket thingies. I was down at my parents house for Sunday dinner and the topic came up and suddenly there I was trying to choose between Wofford and Wisconsin. I don't even know where Wofford is. In fact, I've never even heard of Wofford.

So while my family was discussing team stats and players and stuff I chose my teams based purely on which one has the better name. So Wofford, obviously, makes it to the second round. It actually makes it all the way to the Final Four. Along with Lehigh, Gonzaga and Purdue. I have Purdue winning the whole thing because, along with have a funny name, it has the single greatest mascot of all time: the Boilermakers. You cannot deny that kind of power.

How does this feel?

(Disclaimer: I like sports. Really, I do. I don't follow all of them, and I have been known to root for or against a team based solely on the state they were from (name one likable team from Florida. I dare you.) or the color of their jersey, but, with the exception of cricket and Australian Rules Football, I can watch a game and understand and appreciate what's going on. I like watching a good game, I read Sports Illustrated, I have painted my face and worn a giant foam finger. So, I like sports. But I do not like sports television reporting, and this is just one of many points I could have covered regarding it. Like how the play-by-play guys always say, "The best thing they can do now is score." Why isn't this genius on the team's payroll?)

I'm not really a basketball fan. But I like to see people win so I tuned into the end of the NBA finals to watch the Celtics school the Lakers. And I was happy about that, until the post-game interview. I dislike the post-game interview more than I dislike basketball. And that's really saying something. I'm not talking about the post-game press conference, I'm talking about the interview where the reporter is on the field or court and grabs a player just seconds after they win, confetti and sweat pouring down, fans and players screaming and jumping everywhere, you know, general pandemonium, and attempts to scream the all important question that is burning on every one's lips: "You just won! How does it feel?"

How does it feel? As in, how does winning a championship feel? Well, I guess it feels pretty great. And that's just me saying that having never actually won a championship. How do you think it feels? And what revolutionary thing do you think the player is going to say? "Truthfully, I've had a better time playing basketball on my Wii, but I guess this is okay."

It's not just that they ask the question, it's that they ask it 3 or 4 times.

Reporter: How does it feel?
Player: Great.
Reporter: So, it feels pretty great, huh?
Player: Yeah, it feels great.
Reporter: Have you ever felt this great before?
Player: Well, this is a pretty great feeling...
Reporter: This must be the greatest moment of your life.
Player: (nods head)
Reporter: Of all the great moments in your life, where does this rank? Great, greater or greatest?
Player: Is this a trick questions?
Reporter: No, I just want to know how great does this feel?
Player: (palms the reporter's head and slam dunks it)

Tonight's post-game interview was particularly painful to watch. Some gal pulled Kevin Garnett aside, maybe 20 seconds after the clock ran out and asked him the question. He was emotional and looked like he would rather be with his teammates instead of having this woman nestle under his sweaty armpit with a microphone shoved up his mouth, and he took a second to compose himself and answer the question but answered it well, if not a little incoherently. And then she asked it again. And he answered it another way. And then she asked it again. She would not stop with the question! She just kept clinging onto him like a baby possum and shouting his name, even when he was jumping around and hollering. And it went on FOREVER. It was killing me. Let the man go! You're embarrassing yourself. Now is not the time to be the Young Intrepid Girl Sports Reporter With Moxy. Now is the time to get off the court and let the team have their moment. That would have really felt great.

And now I can say I gave it a shot...which is more than the players did.

Last night I did something I never do. I watched part of a basketball game. I don't like basketball. I like every other sport but basketball. I'll watch any other sport but basketball. (True story: On Sunday I was down at the fam's and we actually watched bowling. Mostly for laughs, but you understand.) But I thought, my tastes have changed over the years and I have discovered that things I thought I didn't like are actually pretty enjoyable. Like oatmeal and Dickens. So, the Clippers were on and I thought I'd give it a shot.

Nope. My tastes have not changed that much. Because here's what basketball is:

Throw in, dribble twice, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, shot, miss, rebound, foul, throw in, dribble twice to the other side, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, go for the hoop, miss, foul, free throw. Dribble, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, shoot, score, dribble, pass, pass, pass, pass, pass, foul. Repeat. Near the end it's more like pass, foul, pass, foul, time out, pass, foul, time out, pass, pass, foul, foul, foul, foul, time out.

I lasted about15 minutes. Basketball is essentially freakishly tall people playing keep-away.

Notes on a baseball game

My first trip to Dodger Stadium is etched in my memory like...um...something etched (I'm horrible with similes). I was eight-ish and my dad picked me up at my grandparent's house where I had spent the morning, no doubt playing King Leonardo and watching the People's Court, because that's what we always did with Grandma. (Sometimes we laid shelf paper in the cupboards. But Grandparent Memories are for another post.) We drove out to the stadium and I remember passing by the murals on the 101, specifically the one with all those kids up on the wall (You know that kid holding the basketball has grown up to be a certified bunny killer). We met up with Dodger Dave, and I distinctly remember my dad saying under his breath, "Oh brother," when we saw that he was wearing his Dodger uniform. Dodger Dave has never been known for his subtly. I remember that we were up somewhere in the reserve seating and that it was sunny and warm but that's about all from the game. Do you remember in color? All of my memories are mostly of color. This memory is all green grass and yellow sun with a flash of blue and white from Dodger Dave. And it has solidified my notion that Dodger Stadium is the greatest place on earth. I don't have a single bad memory from there. Only perfect ones.

Mom, Dad and I went to the Dodger game last night and, as usual, it was great, even without making it on the Jumbo-tron. We won (wahoo!) and it was short (home by 10:30, although like all good Dodger fans we left in the middle of the 8th) and we were surrounded by non-obnoxious people. This is about all you can hope for when going to a sporting event - that the people sitting around you aren't no-neck hooligans who will eventually spill beer on you. Our neighbors were lovely and charming. The one behind us especially. I've named him the Baseball Sage. He was wearing a pink Oxford and was expounding on all sorts of things to his young companion (I wasn't sure what their relationship was. The Sage was clearly a professor and my guess is the kid was his TA or a student who wanted to suck up to get a better grade by indulging the guy. Although at one point he went up and bought the kid a rootbeer float. Hm.) He kept talking about the ideal of baseball and it's many complexities. Academics like that make me both roll my eyes and giggle at the same time because 1.) What a windbag and 2.) What a character. And you should have heard him sing Take Me out to the Ballgame. Two words: Gusto and Vim.

While at the game I made a few observations:

1.) In baseball there are the long pants and the short pants. But future Hall of Fame pitcher Greg Maddux wears medium pants, or man-pris if you will. (And I will).

2.) Man-space is not just a theory.

It is a proven fact that if two male friends go anywhere and they are give the option to not sit next to each other they won't.

3.) I make it a habit to ask people how long they've worked at the stadium. I have never once heard anyone say anything fewer than 25 years. Case in point: Sid the Usher. I think he could be 119. I wonder if he's single.
*

4.) It's the old time stuff I love the most about Dodger Stadium. Vin Scully up in his box. Nancy Bea at the organ. Sometimes Tommy Lasorda will come out and watch a few innings. I even love that they reverted back to the old colors of the stadium. Certainly the Baseball Sage could go on for days about the traditions of baseball but I won't bore you. I'll just say that he would be right.
5.) All stadiums should be landscaped with palm trees.

6.) Baseball teams should not be allowed to change their colors just because they feel like it. I'm looking at you Padres. Dad pointed out that their uniforms are the same colors as our ushers'.

7.) Watching David Wells lumber around the bases after he hit a miraculous double makes me so happy that we don't have a DH in the National League.

8.) Baseball is awesome.

*Remind me to find that picture Camille sent me of Sid's old-man butt that she took last spring. Classic.

Bad Luck

I'm going to the Dodger game tonight so I went online to see who they're playing (San Diego - eye on the prize!) and found out that tomorrow is Tommy Lasorda bobblehead night. Drat! I will console myself by trying to get on the Jumbo-tron 3 times (current record: 2 times.)