A fan comes clean

Note: This bout of honesty comes due to the writings of one Dan Shanoff, who had a great blog post today about becoming a fan, and what really matters. Made me think. It is highly recommended reading, and is available HERE.

This is hard for me to admit, as by merely admitting what I'm about to admit, I will be admitting to lies that stretch back to my teens, at least, and maybe farther. Here goes.

My father was not a Red Sox fan.

Which means I didn't inherit my love of the Sox from my father. Didn't spend sun-drenched days in Fenway, watching the Sawx do battle in the middle of summer. My father wasn't from Worcester, Massachusetts, like I always claimed. We didn't have the wonderful father - son relationship, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Dad was from Scottsdale, Arizona.

His team was the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Dodgers.

Don't get me wrong: I love the Boston Red Sox. I do. But I didn't come by them in the usual ways.

My mother is the one responsible for my love of the Red Sox. It's true.

I never lived in Boston, or on the Eastern seaboard. I'm a Western US kind of kid. I can't imagine living in a place so small, so cramped, and without mountains (and with the big dig. Ugh). But when I was young (somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11, I believe), mom and I went out to Boston to see her college friend, her husband, and her son.

It was September.

The Sox were in contention.

And when we took the T down to Fenway, I was blown away.

Yawkey Way, full of people, with the smell of sausages and peanuts and popcorn and beer and baseball... the cheerful sounds of "Go SOX!" as you walked through the crowd. I knew then that I would always be a Red Sox fan.

And then I saw the inside of the stadium. My, that stadium. Fenway Park is the greatest ballpark on the face of the planet. It is baseball's cathedral. The size, the proximity of fan to player, the wall, all make it... well... the most special place on the planet to see a baseball game. You think that, at any minute, Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski or Jimmie Foxx is going to walk of the dugout to take a few cuts at the plate.

My life would never be the same again.

I brought home more merchandise than any 8-11 year old kid should be allowed. A Red Sox poster that featured the likes of Oil Can Boyd, Mike Greenwell, and the immortal Wade Boggs. A Sox hat. A tee shirt with "The Hunt for Red October" silk-screened on the front.

From that day forth, I was a Red Sox fan. And in spite of giving my dad all the credit for that choice, my mom is really who is responsible.

That said, it's tough to follow your team when you live 3000 miles away. With a 162 game season, it's damn near impossible. Remember, this was before DirecTV and the baseball package. The Sox became my "AL team."

My NL team? Why, the upstart Colorado Rockies, of course.

I'm a Denver guy. When we got pro baseball in Denver, it was a very exciting time. I finally made it to a game at Old Mile High, late in that first 1993 season. I don't remember much, except that I liked the uniforms, and I loved the team. These guys had come out of nowhere: Andres Galarraga, Dante Bichette, Joe Girardi... who were these guys?

Answer: they were the sign that Denver was finally moving beyond just a cowtown. They were a sign of progress. The National Pastime, in Denver! Pro ball! Major League City!

The Rockies fans set a record for attendance that year. More than 4 million people went through the turnstiles. We weren't very good, but we weren't supposed to be.

I've since kept my eye on the Rockies. I love going to the stadium downtown, and at one point actually worked at Coors Field. For my money, and I don't have much, there's nothing better than the baseball stadium on a sunny, summer day. Being bathed in sun with a great, upper deck view of the Rockies, enhanced by the view of the Rockies (and vice versa) has no equal, in my opinion.

Call it what you will. Am I a turncoat for rooting for the Rockies in this World Series? Maybe. But when someone asks from now on who I root for, it'll always start one way:

"I have two teams."

We're coming for Favre.

See what we did to Ben Roehtllaekjfjlkjdfajewkaljflbljkaberger this weekend? You like that shit? That's how we treat guests in our house. That's how we throw down now. That's how we tell people that the Predominantly Orange Monster is back.

FUCK YOU, Pissburgh.

Next? Brett Favre and the Packers on Monday night.

I'm of the belief that this guy:



... got what he deserved. You don't wear a Favre jersey. Ever. See how he's holding his head oh-so gently, after receiving a shot to the back of his dome? Well, Elvis Dumervil is the chair, and the guy in the Favre jersey is Favre.

FUCK YOU, Green Bay.

Taste my pain, bitch.

Brilliant!

I've been loving on the Coors Light coach commercials, where they splice footage of NFL coach press conferences with shots of guys (like me) drinking beer and asking smartass, smarmy questions (like me). They're awesome.

And many people have seen the video of the Oklahoma State football coach yelling at a columnist for being mean to one of "his" players. It was absurd, and kind of funny.

Now the two have been brought together.

Let us enjoy the enjoyment.

Rocktober Rocks On

Big ups to Jonathan for sending me the link.

Well, that's the last time I take advice from Troy Aikman

During the Sunday football marathon, or what I like to call "my stories," former quarterback-turned-punching bag and current football analyst-turned-douchebag did a promo for this new Fox show, "Back To You." It's got Kelsey Grammar. It's got Patricia Heaton. It's got Fred Willard. It's about a local TV news team in Pittsburgh.

In other words, this show sucks. I know that going in. And yet I listen to that mutton-headed fuckstick Aikman when he says "That show is so funny. I mean, so good. That Kelsey Grammar's character reminds me of one of my coworkers. Dick Stockton."

Me? I can't resist getting an inside look at Dick Stockton's life and his apparent mis-treatment of a dumbass like Aikman.

Naturally, I DVR'd that shit, and tried to watch it this evening before bed.

I made it roughly 4 minutes.

What an awful, awful show.


Kelsey Grammar and Patricia Heaton? Troy couldn't help but whip out his sausage.

I'm not sure what the point of this entry is. I just thought it was a good time to make fun of Aikman's concussed ass, because I feel like being an asshole tonight. Aikman, you inbred dipshit licker of assholes: thanks for nothin'.

Love just leaves you bruised

Before you ask, I don't know what Jim and Pam from The Office have to do with this song. But the song properly wraps up how running into Lauren changed my weekend.

Love just leaves you bruised. If you want to know, you find something to lose.

I did not see that coming...

Beer fest. A time for guys to be guys and girls to serve us beer. Met up with Patrick, Thom, The Deuce (Thom's brother), and assorted others, and proceeded to the Colorado Convention Center to partake in some one-ounce-at-a-time fun.

And fun, it was. Tons of beer from all over the US, some great samples, some bad samples, and surprisingly nothing from Missoula, home of three great breweries. At learning this, my excitement was suddenly tempered, if only because the familiar is comforting, especially in the face of 400 brewers making everything from very good barleywine to an absolutely atrocious pomegranate beer. Sometimes, you just want a taste of Cold Smoke from Kettle House, or Moose Drool from Big Sky, or Dancing Trout from Bayern; they bring you back to center, let you find your happy place again for a moment, before setting out to conquer the rest of the booths.

Alas, none of these brewers showed up.

I should have known this to be a bad sign.

Just when I was getting past the Big Sky slight, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the best friend of a wonderful ex of mine. Lauren's friend, Karen, spotted me, and my thoughts immediately went to panic mode.

Karen: "HI!"

Sam: (Oh, FUCK.)"Um. Hey. Oh, hi Lauren."

Lauren: "Hi."

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and I have to admit, it was a lot less awkward than I'd ever expected it to be. Consider for a moment that the last time we saw each other was nearly a year ago. To think how long a time ago that was, realize that the Rockies weren't even within spitting distance of the playoffs, the Broncos were, and Allen Iverson wasn't a Nugget yet.

And consider that there was precisely zero closure between the two of us. At least, not for me. I was told in an email that she was no longer interested, and via phone call that she was seeing a new guy, the dreaded Gil.

Despite all of this, seeing Lauren was good. And she looks great. Looks very happy. Which made me happy, and sad, at the same time.

After a few minutes, they walked away, and I figured we wouldn't run into each other again in a giant room full of 10,000 people. Naturally, I was wrong.

But it wasn't "running into them" I should have been worried about. I should have been more concerned with busy-body Karen having the great idea of "Let's introduce Sam to Gil!" Oh, can we please?!

Sure enough, up runs Karen.

"So, you wanna meet Gil?"

"No, not really."

"Well, he and Lauren are on their way over here right now."

And as I looked over her shoulder, sure enough, there was Lauren, arm in arm with my new nemesis. The dreaded Gil.

And as we shook hands, and I desperately searched for a reason that Lauren wouldn't be happy with him, I was quite upset to know that there was nothing. She's found her man.

And I'm happy for her. And I'm happy for him, because she's so fucking awesome, and if he's smart, he won't make the same idiotic mistakes I made, and disappoint her, and hurt her.

Because if he does, I'll break his kneecaps.

What bothers me most about this whole scenario? The fact that Gil is actually a pretty cool guy. If the circumstances were different, I would probably hang out with this kid.

Circumstances being what they are, I will break his kneecaps if he hurts Lauren.

That, my friends, is life. More specifically, my life.