Woe is England – We Are Lions Led By Donkeys

So the Three Lions managed to stay in the hunt for a Euro birth last night with a woeful victory over a ski resort posing as a country that might be able to fit comfortably within the confines of Wembley Stadium. Since I’ve beaten the McClaren thing to death, I’ll do my best to avoid dwelling on the fact that he defies belief with his managerial ineptitude. This is not to say that all of England’s woes should be placed at his feet — he can’t do anything about the lack of player development or depth of class — but since the Almighty granted us free will and all (at least, that’s what they tell us), McClaren should be going out of his way to stop being a daft bastard and he refuses. And as far as I’m concerned, such a hellworthy trespass is worthy of swift, repeated kicks to those plywood teeth… so are remarks like this:

"What I say to the fans is stick with the players, they are giving it their all and they are out there doing it."

Interesting. I guess I missed that angle when their mockery of the game was making my eyes bleed. Shame on me for complaining, McClown… I didn’t mean to miss the 24 minutes out of the last 540 that the lads were actually out there "doing it."

In any case, I would like to extend a heap of gratitude to Fluke Lampard who apparently fractured his wrist. Though cleared to play, he was mysteriously left out of the Andorra match lineup, and after 45 horrifying minutes of typical English football, Steven Gerrard came out of the bloody woodwork for a brace before David Nugent popped in the third. Amazing what happens when Super Steve is allowed to roam in his rightful place at center with his back guarded by Owen Hargreavs, isn’t it?

I’m not one to wish injury upon others but with all of our upcoming matches falling into the "must-win" category, is it possible to pull Jeff Gillooly out of the trailer park he’s rotting in to send him after a fat, entitled bastard like Fluke? Frankly, I think an O.B.E. would be in order for such meritorious service to English sport.

March Madness Is A Complete Let Down

It’s 2:44p on a Wednesday and it still feels like 0912 on Monday – of last week. In the spring, I don’t have to work nearly so late as any other time of year, so you’d think the days would go faster. They don’t. It’s like someone poured molasses into the clocks and then beckoned Father Time to stand in my office door to mock me. 

In times like these, I turn to sports. Reasonably, I should be completely fulfilled — not only do we have March Madness, there’s also spring training and Opening Day is in 4 days and like 6 hours… I used to think about the NFL Draft but nowadays that just gives me an ulcer. Knowing that we won’t sign David Carr, take Calvin Johnson with the #1 pick, and trade Randy Moss for extra picks to be used on an O-line and DTs gives me all the Pepto Bismol symptoms at once.

In any case, my problem is that nothing is happening. On the first day of the tournament, I parked my arse in front of the tv and allowed the hysteria to overtake me. Thanks to my workplace having satellite and my cable provider’s price gouging for coverage, not a foul, rebound, or travel was missed. I sucked in basketball like crack from the pipe from Thursday at 1230 until Sunday around 10. All was well.

When I awoke Monday morning, things were still fine. I spent the better part of the day complaining about the implosion of my Midwest brackets and headed home. But when I flipped on my tv that evening, the only available entertainment was "24." Meh. A month ago, I would have sat white-knuckled and barely breathing but not anymore. Not during March Madness. Jack Bauer disabling a drone equipped with a nuclear bomb while the president slipped away in a coma while Nadia was pulled into interrogation by the kid from Silver Spoons for spying barely registered on my scales. Things got worse and worse and by Saturday, I couldn’t even get out of bed. Sure, I perked up for the Sweet Sixteen and Elite 8 games but those only lasted 5 hours total. What was I supposed to do with the rest of my day? Go outside? Read? Do something productive? No. I fell apart. And now, here I am, sleepwalking through life and struggling like hell to make it on a Wednesday because I just realized Saturday seems far enough away that it may as well be next year.

I know good games are coming but I’m just sick of waiting, as everything on television pales in comparison to the excitement that awaits. Some braindead woman had the nerve to ask me why I don’t watch the women’s tournament on the weekdays and when I told her that I’d rather run my face into a wall over and over again while Billy PACCker ragged on from a nearby bench, she took offense and lectured me about how I’ve benefited from Title IX.. since I know how to walk and chew gum at the same time, I failed to see how that related to women’s hoops but I suppose that’s bound to occur from time to time.

In any case, would anyone completely object to a 15 day, action packed NCAA tournament… one that would actually live up to its copyrighted billing… You know, non-stop, mad dash basketball that burns and burns and burns like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle, when a champion was crowned, we’d see the blue centerlight pop and we’d all pass out in awe.

Is that so unreasonable?

Maybe I Can Manage England

So I’ve been out of touch with sports and my own life in general for quite some time and I’m not really sure how I’ve been getting along. I woke up this morning and felt like I had one of those "three weeks later" subtitles sitting over my bed and all I’ve really determined thus far is that Robert Parish’s dad is in the Final Four, Sangina Malakar is still on American Idol, and my bracket imploded on the first Saturday of the NCAA tournament… I’m in something like 53rd place in my own goddamn league. In any case, I suppose it’s time to start fresh.

Last week, ginger-haired dandy, Steve McClaren, told the English masses to expect the Three Lions to deliver a performance against Israel full of passion, pride, power, and pace. You know, the usual web of lies. And whaddya know, the lads set an astonishingly new low for shame. We were lacklustre and pathetic from kickoff, drawing with bloody Israel for our fourth scoreless outing in five. Not bad for the country that invented the goddamn game, eh?

Yet another shoddy performance puts McLaren’s present record at 3-3-2 and officially makes him the worst manager on the face of the planet. What’s worse is we will have to toil with his fraudulent "leadership" until faced with the embarrassment of not qualifying for Euro 2008.

Why would McClaren take the job if he didn’t have a lick of a clue as to what he was doing?? Why not just fess  up to the FA and say, "Sorry for getting in the way, mates; I guess I don’t know dick. Please replace me with Martin O’Neill or Terry Venables. Spanking Wayne Rooney? Dropping Fluke Lampard? Shifting Steven Gerrard to his rightful position? No… I never considered any of that. Player discipline? Whaaaaa? Would that have been good? Well, all the same, my bad, chaps. I suppose I should have told you that my brains were comprised of shits and biscuits BEFORE I lobbied for the job."

Go throw yourself off a bridge, McClaren. You stupid fuck.

As an aside, consider for a moment that I am the balding, older man who is approached by Steve McClaren, the trailer park, tornado bait:

Last Call

I’m still getting brutalized in the real world, so my apologies for not being around much. But since the important thing on the planet this week is the NCAA bracket, I need to touch on that briefly…

I sent out invitations for our bracket tournament last Friday but if you think I missed you (and I did miss a few people), send me an email or instant message sometime today and I’ll get one to ya immediately.

Cheers 

Come Back With Your Shield, Or On It

I’ve not yet had time to comment on how much Arsenal has hurt my spirit but I did make time for Sparta.

One of my favorite books of fiction is Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield. Recommended by a friend but given as a gift from my father, I hold it dear. Gates is an epic recounting of the Battle of Thermopylae, as told by Xeones, the lone survivor of the Persian siege. From the first page on, it captivated me.

Initially, I thought my background had something to do with my affection. My father and the generations before him are Chiricahua Apache, a band of warrior people trapped on reservations with nothing to fight other than their own vices. My biological grandfather left the rez to serve as a SEAL in the United States Navy during Vietnam. Though short on love for this country and her government, he wanted to fight and die with honor, as Apache were borne but no longer had the chance to do. Though he didn’t return, my father eventually followed him and my brother after that. I like to think that I would have done the same but who’s to say?

It was for these reasons – this similarity of mindset and my constant wondering of what-if – that I believed I liked the book. But over time, I realized that it went beyond that. I kept going back to Gates again and again because I was mesmerized by a type of manhood, courage, loyalty, honor, and discipline unseen beyond any military’s elite in hundreds of years. So when I caught wind of Frank Miller’s graphic novel 300, I bought it immediately. Miller’s story isn’t dialogue driven but his illustrations were masterful. And when I found out a movie was in the works, I awaited it with baited breath. 

So I caught the midnight showing of the 300 last night with a few hundred other dorks, history buffs, and comic book types… a handful wore togas while a few others sported red capes and carried swords, shields, and battle axes fashioned out of aluminum foil and cardboard. Ugh.

From the flash of the title screen until the final credits, 300 was an absolute marvel. Words cannot do this film justice. Taken page by page from the graphic novel, King Leonidas, gleamed both noble and cruel like all hero-kings of old and refused to allow the glory of Greece to fade before a barbarous horde. His defiance and courage were punctuated by breathtaking battle scenes, glorious heroism, and base treachery. I simply cannot express to you how stunning it is without swimming through another ocean of hyperbole. Every word, every movement, every moment was a necessary one. It was beautiful. It was flawless. And I’m going again tonight. You should too.

So, David Beckham Was Actually Running?

David Beckham is injured yet again. During the second half of a 1-1 draw with Getafe on Sunday, Goldenballs pulled up lame with a ligament strain in his knee. Unlike his last mid-match injury where he shamed the whole of England with his sissypants, touchline tears, Becks left the pitch of the Bernabeu like a bit of a man and sparked panic amongst the LA Galaxy’s 8,000 fans.

It looks like the injury is going to cost him a month of downtime, the Galaxy’s season opener, and a chance to make the Three Lions squad for our match against Israel next month. The England bit is of no concern to me; I live in a perpetual state of doom and gloom no matter who mans the squad. We could suit up a FIFA All-Star team in Her Majesty’s colours and still find a way to go down in flames.

But back to Beckham. I’m a bit confused by this. It doesn’t take much to injure an ankle like he did at the World Cup. Divots, tackles, missteps.. it’s amazing how little it takes for an ankle to breakdown. But to tear a knee ligament means that you probably: a) made a move that your knee couldn’t handle; b) tore after the ball and screwed yourself when stopping momentum; or c) got tackled and tangled while doing a or b.

I’ve watched Becks his entire professional career and that bloke hasn’t made a move or torn off in mad pursuit since 1998. Dead balls aside, David Beckham plays soccer like old people fuck. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t blame him for it anymore; he’s not at fault. Few know it but an invisible force field about 10 meters in diameter lives on the right side half line of every pitch. When Becks crosses the touchline, this phenomenon envelopes him and holds him captive for the duration of the match. It’s really quite fascinating. Defenders are able to get into the forcefield; he just can’t get out. Should he try to cross the plane, he’s zapped back to the center… that’s also why he looks so confused all the time.

With that in mind, how did he ever hurt himself?? I call shenanigans. David Beckham is either faking this injury to stick it to Fabio Capello or he’s been screwing England over for years. Who knew this bastard could move quickly enough to get an injury when he wasn’t celebrating a goal?

New Yorkers: Get Half-Priced Knicks Tickets

Who’s down?

Look, I know the New York Knicks play like stir-fried shit 9 times out of ten but how would you like the opportunity to boo Isiah Thomas, Starbury, AND Stevie Franchise for less stress and money than it costs to listen to your significant other babble about inanities over dinner? I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about the crazy bitch from her job that’s trying to destroy her one too many times now. It’s time to change things up a bit.

I’ve been alerted to a promotion offering tickets at MSG for half off. These aren’t Spike Lee’s seats, mind you, but if you’re normally in the market for $66.50 or $44.50 seats, then check out this promotion… it starts tonight when the Knickerbockers take on the Seattle Supersonics.

Promotion Schedule
3/6 vs. Seattle Supersonics
3/16 vs. New Orleans / Oklahoma City Hornets
3/22 vs. Portland TrailBlazers
3/26 vs. Orlando Magic
4/4 vs. Philadelphia 76ers

Go to the ticket/schedule page – http://www.nba.com/knicks/schedule/ – and enter promo code MARBURY (all caps, just like he would like it) to score a cheap night at MSG. And if you can’t rationalize the expense (or the time waste), then keep thinking "fifty percent off" to yourself until you magically see the light. If necessary, throw "and delicious nachos" in there as well… that always does the trick for me.

Wife Training

Thank you for the concern about my whereabouts but no, I did not: die; abandon my blog; suffer a stroke after Arsenal’s absolutely shameful, dreadful, pathetic week of shite, suck, and criminality; get arrested trying to kill Al Davis; get attacked by the heating/cooling serviceman that tried to rip me off; or get killed by my boyfriend/spouse/affair/stalker (I don’t know what prompted those particular questions; do you know something I don’t?). I’ve simply been up against it at work with 12-13 hour days and I haven’t looked at the internet in the better part of a week. Boss is a fierce taskmaster.

Anyway, I’ll produce something substantive this evening but in the meantime, here’s something to send to your wives, girlfriends, and mothers…