When I was about 13, my travel soccer from South Riverdale went to Purchase, N.Y. to play F.C. Westchester. As far as we were concerned, they might as well have been A.C. Milan. All I remember about the game was that we lost 8-0, and it could easily have been three times that bad. As my teammate’s father so eloquently put it, “I felt like I was watching the Harlem Globetrotters . . . but my son was on the Washington Generals.”
This season’s “Gauntlet” has a similar feel.
If you’ve been watching, you know what I’m talking about it. The Veterans are the Globetrotters, and the Rookies are the Generals. It’s just getting silly. So silly that I might not be able to write about it anymore.
MTV basically tried to give the Rookies a victory with that stupid burial challenge, and they still couldn’t win. How incompetent do you have to be? The funniest part about it was how the players were freaking out about getting buried two feet deep in the sand. Do you really think MTV is going to let you die on the show? These contestants just get dumber every season.
And after all that, the Rookies still wouldn’t put Nehemiah into the gauntlet against Frank, even though he was clearly the reason they couldn’t win an event that was essentially handed to them on a platter. So instead, they throw in the almighty M.J., and it seemed like everyone thought it was a foregone conclusion he would beat Frank. Is it because M.J. played football at Vanderbilt? Please.
It’s not like Frank is built like McLovin’, and he proved it by defeating M.J.
So now we’re at the point where the Veterans have twice as many players as the Rookies, not to mention a crate load of schwag they’ve won along the way. There seems to be a sentiment among the Vets that having too many players is going to be a detriment in the final mission.
While this strikes me as a needless worry when you consider their domination, it’s also setting up setting up to be the only drama left in this season as the Vets try and figure how they can get some of their female players kicked off.
All in all, it’s been a pretty disappointing season. That doesn’t mean I’ll stop watching though.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
No Bourbon For Me
After living outside of New York for most of the past three years, the best part about being back is the ability to reconnect with old friends and family. It's not that I didn't like living in North Carolina because I did, but my social network runs much deeper up in NYC. Considering I grew up here and lived here for two years out of college, it really should come as no surprise.
As a result, I've spent the better part of my first couple of months in New York feverishly trying to catch up with old friends. One of these friends is a buddy from college that moved to Manhattan while I was in North Carolina, which makes it a lot easier to hang out with him.
He's a ton of fun, so I'm usually down to meet up with him, except of course when he wants me to join him for his regular Thursday visit a bar called Bourbon St. on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
He has a good reason for going there, and it's because Bourbon St. serves $1 drafts on Thursdays, and he tries to get me to join his group of regulars almost every week. I just can't do it, and there's a good reason.
When I was in high school, Bourbon St. was known as one of those places known for being rather relaxed when it came to scrutinizing IDs at the door. Therefore, it was also a place that had a younger clientele. When I was a junior in high school, a friend of mine and I decided to finally get up to speed with the rest of the country's teenage population and get fake IDs. With IDs, we reasoned, we'd finally be able to get into cool bars like Bourbon St.
One Saturday afternoon, we made a trek down to the West Village to one of those shady stores where it's kind of hard to tell exactly what they sell, but you know they have fake IDs.
We didn't really know what we were doing, and it showed. Our problems were further complicated by the fact that we didn't want to spend more than $40 or so per man. This meant that we wouldn't be getting replica out-of-state licenses, but rather generic-looking college IDs. We had friends with similar IDs, however, and those seemed to work OK. We figured we'd be OK.
I like to think that we were pretty bright kids, yet we decided to get IDs that were virtually identical, except mine said "St. John's University," and his said "Rutgers University." You'd think we'd have realized that since we planned on using these IDs at the same time, our IDs would look better if they were from the same school. Apparently not.
We were pretty proud of our purchase, and we looked forward to getting to try them out. I was a little bit of a wimp, so I didn't want to risk using them anywhere out of fear of them being confiscated, or worse, us getting arrested. As you can tell, I was a bit paranoid as a teenager. One place I wasn't afraid to try my crappy fake ID was Bourbon St., and sure enough, my friend and I waltzed right in.
What I didn't realize at the time is that bars either take fake IDs, or they don't. This wasn't a situation where my ID was being examined for its authenticity, because it was obviously fake to anyone with a third-grade education. The biggest lesson I learned from that experience is that it behooves any teenager to spend the money on a good ID. You're high school years will be more fun, and you won't have to worry about whether you're good enough for places like Bourbon St.
When I first got back to NYC in December, I begrudgingly joined my friend on Thursday at Bourbon St. because I hadn't seen him in a really, really long time. And while it was great to see him, I couldn't shake the feeling of being anywhere from 5-to-10 years older than the everyone else there. After that, I vowed never to go back there again.
To turn a phrase from Groucho Marx, I don't want to go to any bar that would have a dorky 17-year-old version of myself as a patron.
As a result, I've spent the better part of my first couple of months in New York feverishly trying to catch up with old friends. One of these friends is a buddy from college that moved to Manhattan while I was in North Carolina, which makes it a lot easier to hang out with him.
He's a ton of fun, so I'm usually down to meet up with him, except of course when he wants me to join him for his regular Thursday visit a bar called Bourbon St. on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
He has a good reason for going there, and it's because Bourbon St. serves $1 drafts on Thursdays, and he tries to get me to join his group of regulars almost every week. I just can't do it, and there's a good reason.
When I was in high school, Bourbon St. was known as one of those places known for being rather relaxed when it came to scrutinizing IDs at the door. Therefore, it was also a place that had a younger clientele. When I was a junior in high school, a friend of mine and I decided to finally get up to speed with the rest of the country's teenage population and get fake IDs. With IDs, we reasoned, we'd finally be able to get into cool bars like Bourbon St.
One Saturday afternoon, we made a trek down to the West Village to one of those shady stores where it's kind of hard to tell exactly what they sell, but you know they have fake IDs.
We didn't really know what we were doing, and it showed. Our problems were further complicated by the fact that we didn't want to spend more than $40 or so per man. This meant that we wouldn't be getting replica out-of-state licenses, but rather generic-looking college IDs. We had friends with similar IDs, however, and those seemed to work OK. We figured we'd be OK.
I like to think that we were pretty bright kids, yet we decided to get IDs that were virtually identical, except mine said "St. John's University," and his said "Rutgers University." You'd think we'd have realized that since we planned on using these IDs at the same time, our IDs would look better if they were from the same school. Apparently not.
We were pretty proud of our purchase, and we looked forward to getting to try them out. I was a little bit of a wimp, so I didn't want to risk using them anywhere out of fear of them being confiscated, or worse, us getting arrested. As you can tell, I was a bit paranoid as a teenager. One place I wasn't afraid to try my crappy fake ID was Bourbon St., and sure enough, my friend and I waltzed right in.
What I didn't realize at the time is that bars either take fake IDs, or they don't. This wasn't a situation where my ID was being examined for its authenticity, because it was obviously fake to anyone with a third-grade education. The biggest lesson I learned from that experience is that it behooves any teenager to spend the money on a good ID. You're high school years will be more fun, and you won't have to worry about whether you're good enough for places like Bourbon St.
When I first got back to NYC in December, I begrudgingly joined my friend on Thursday at Bourbon St. because I hadn't seen him in a really, really long time. And while it was great to see him, I couldn't shake the feeling of being anywhere from 5-to-10 years older than the everyone else there. After that, I vowed never to go back there again.
To turn a phrase from Groucho Marx, I don't want to go to any bar that would have a dorky 17-year-old version of myself as a patron.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
White People Like Stuff
Being the hip New Yorker that she is, my sister is always in on the cutting edge. So of course it was her that sent me the think to "Stuff White People Like," a hot new blog that is pretty self-explanatory. The blog is quite "smart" as my boss here at ESPN Mag likes to say, and I found myself shaking my head with self-awareness as I read it. Since I'm in my late 20s and live in Park Slope, the blog is basically poking fun at my entire demographic.
In my defense, I will say that I don't like Oscar parties, snowboarding or food Co-ops. I do like Mos Def, however, I've been down with him since he was one half of Black Star, and before he was appearing on Chapelle's Show.
I take pride in being able to laugh at myself, so I got to thinking about other things that white people like that should appear on that blog. Fortunately, my Saturday night gave me plenty of fodder as I was at a birthday party at Automatic Slim's, which is a closet-sized bar in the West Village that spins all sorts of music white people like. Over the course of the evening, I realized there are three songs that stand above the rest in terms of the love-affair white folks have with them, and they are "Livin' On A Prayer," "Don't Stop Believing," and "Sweet Caroline."
To be honest, I can't really decide which of these songs white people love most. My friends used to own a bar up by Columbia University, and they claim that "Livin' On A Prayer" would be played on the jukebox at least twice on any crowded night. Ever since then, I've always considered that the quintessential white person bar song. And to be honest, if I never hear that song again at a bar, I'll be a happy person. I don't choose music at bars, however, and when that song comes on, the white kids start belting out the story of Tommy and Gina like its going out of style, even though it's clearly not. Last night was no exception.
The Bon Jovi "classic" received some competition from Neil Diamond and Journey last night, and I came to realize that those two songs might have surpassed "
Livin' On A Prayer" on the white people chart. To see the pleasure white folks derive from screaming out a "ba-ba-baa" after each "Sweet Caroline" is quite remarkable. When the song regained popularity after it's appearance in the film "Beautiful Girls," I was into it. More than a decade later, I'm pretty fucking sick of it.
It's become even more nauseating due to its association with the Boston Red Sox, who play the song in the middle of the eighth inning at every home game. It's a nice little tradition, and I don't begrudge them for it. Even the Mets play it now, and with the exception of Billy Wagner, it's my least favorite thing about the organization right now.
Unfortunately, the Red Sox success has made the song far more prevalent and we're forced to hear it more frequently. On the plus side, it helps prove my theory because I don't think there is a team with a whiter fan base in all of sports than the Boston Red Sox. Have you ever seen a non-white Red Sox fan? Me neither, and Red Sox "nation" is everywhere.
That brings us to "Don't Stop Believing," but I'll stop short of poking fun of that song because I still kind of like. That being said, I only think I can deal with hearing it at bars for another year or so before I want stab Steve Perry with a spoon.
In my defense, I will say that I don't like Oscar parties, snowboarding or food Co-ops. I do like Mos Def, however, I've been down with him since he was one half of Black Star, and before he was appearing on Chapelle's Show.
I take pride in being able to laugh at myself, so I got to thinking about other things that white people like that should appear on that blog. Fortunately, my Saturday night gave me plenty of fodder as I was at a birthday party at Automatic Slim's, which is a closet-sized bar in the West Village that spins all sorts of music white people like. Over the course of the evening, I realized there are three songs that stand above the rest in terms of the love-affair white folks have with them, and they are "Livin' On A Prayer," "Don't Stop Believing," and "Sweet Caroline."
To be honest, I can't really decide which of these songs white people love most. My friends used to own a bar up by Columbia University, and they claim that "Livin' On A Prayer" would be played on the jukebox at least twice on any crowded night. Ever since then, I've always considered that the quintessential white person bar song. And to be honest, if I never hear that song again at a bar, I'll be a happy person. I don't choose music at bars, however, and when that song comes on, the white kids start belting out the story of Tommy and Gina like its going out of style, even though it's clearly not. Last night was no exception.
The Bon Jovi "classic" received some competition from Neil Diamond and Journey last night, and I came to realize that those two songs might have surpassed "
Livin' On A Prayer" on the white people chart. To see the pleasure white folks derive from screaming out a "ba-ba-baa" after each "Sweet Caroline" is quite remarkable. When the song regained popularity after it's appearance in the film "Beautiful Girls," I was into it. More than a decade later, I'm pretty fucking sick of it.It's become even more nauseating due to its association with the Boston Red Sox, who play the song in the middle of the eighth inning at every home game. It's a nice little tradition, and I don't begrudge them for it. Even the Mets play it now, and with the exception of Billy Wagner, it's my least favorite thing about the organization right now.
Unfortunately, the Red Sox success has made the song far more prevalent and we're forced to hear it more frequently. On the plus side, it helps prove my theory because I don't think there is a team with a whiter fan base in all of sports than the Boston Red Sox. Have you ever seen a non-white Red Sox fan? Me neither, and Red Sox "nation" is everywhere.
That brings us to "Don't Stop Believing," but I'll stop short of poking fun of that song because I still kind of like. That being said, I only think I can deal with hearing it at bars for another year or so before I want stab Steve Perry with a spoon.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
MJ Returns! No, Not That MJ
Have no fear, The Gauntlet Report is back. I know you loyal readers probably suffered withdrawal, but I’m here to bring in strong like MJ with the Rookies on last night’s Gauntlet.
Man, what a moment that was! The Rookies were all bummed because they were losing folks left and right, and here comes our friend from The Real World: Philadelphia to save the day. I would have liked to see them put MJ in slow motion while he was running across the beach with the “Chariots Of Fire” theme playing to really spice up the drama, but it’s not my call.
I have to give credit to our favorite good ol’ boy, because MJ made his presence known pretty quickly. Not only did he look like he was pulling his weight in the challenges, but he even ran his mouth a bit, criticizing Frank for the way in which he was trying to stand up for Jillian.
You have to hand it to Frank and Jillian, by the way. The whole world seems to be against them, they are constantly overcoming obstacles to keep their dorky affair going. It’s really quite romantic. They’re like Tony and Maria from West Side Story . . . if Tony and Maria were boring New Englanders. I’m not even sure Frank and Jillian are boring New Englanders, but they might as well be.
All that really matters is that it looks like nothing is going to stand between Frank and Jillian and the final mission, and one of the casualties of their desire was Zach, who Frank whupped in The Gauntlet. The plus side of this was MTV putting together a music montage of Zach highlights before his send-off. The producers have done these montages before, most memorably when Timmy “retired” after a loss in a recent challenge, and they are always good for a laugh.
Another thing I’ve also noticed in my years of watching these challenges is that they seem to have their own lexicon. When host T.J. Lavin wants to give credit to a player for a strong performance, he always says, “you killed it.” Any player who thinks they are going to be sent into The Gauntlet will refer to themselves as being “on the chopping block.” The other popular one, which was in heavy rotation tonight, was “trim the fat.” This phrase is used in reference to getting the weaker players eliminated for the good of the team. Aren’t the Real World and Road Rules kids masters of metaphor? If I were William Safire, I might dedicate my next “On Language” column to their wordsmenship.
It looks like the Veterans are ready to actually “trim the fat,” as three of their male members were discussing throwing the next mission as a way of making sure some their female members get eliminated. What I find odd is that the male Veterans keep talking about how their women are slowing them down, yet they’ve won six out of seven missions. Umm, fellas, they can’t be that bad.
I’m a little worried about the integrity of the game being compromised if missions get thrown. Senator Arlen Specter has already shown a willingness to investigate the New England Patriots’ “Spygate”, could The Gauntlet be next?
Man, what a moment that was! The Rookies were all bummed because they were losing folks left and right, and here comes our friend from The Real World: Philadelphia to save the day. I would have liked to see them put MJ in slow motion while he was running across the beach with the “Chariots Of Fire” theme playing to really spice up the drama, but it’s not my call.
I have to give credit to our favorite good ol’ boy, because MJ made his presence known pretty quickly. Not only did he look like he was pulling his weight in the challenges, but he even ran his mouth a bit, criticizing Frank for the way in which he was trying to stand up for Jillian.
You have to hand it to Frank and Jillian, by the way. The whole world seems to be against them, they are constantly overcoming obstacles to keep their dorky affair going. It’s really quite romantic. They’re like Tony and Maria from West Side Story . . . if Tony and Maria were boring New Englanders. I’m not even sure Frank and Jillian are boring New Englanders, but they might as well be.
All that really matters is that it looks like nothing is going to stand between Frank and Jillian and the final mission, and one of the casualties of their desire was Zach, who Frank whupped in The Gauntlet. The plus side of this was MTV putting together a music montage of Zach highlights before his send-off. The producers have done these montages before, most memorably when Timmy “retired” after a loss in a recent challenge, and they are always good for a laugh.
Another thing I’ve also noticed in my years of watching these challenges is that they seem to have their own lexicon. When host T.J. Lavin wants to give credit to a player for a strong performance, he always says, “you killed it.” Any player who thinks they are going to be sent into The Gauntlet will refer to themselves as being “on the chopping block.” The other popular one, which was in heavy rotation tonight, was “trim the fat.” This phrase is used in reference to getting the weaker players eliminated for the good of the team. Aren’t the Real World and Road Rules kids masters of metaphor? If I were William Safire, I might dedicate my next “On Language” column to their wordsmenship.
It looks like the Veterans are ready to actually “trim the fat,” as three of their male members were discussing throwing the next mission as a way of making sure some their female members get eliminated. What I find odd is that the male Veterans keep talking about how their women are slowing them down, yet they’ve won six out of seven missions. Umm, fellas, they can’t be that bad.
I’m a little worried about the integrity of the game being compromised if missions get thrown. Senator Arlen Specter has already shown a willingness to investigate the New England Patriots’ “Spygate”, could The Gauntlet be next?
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thoughts On Ping Pong And Mariah
I’m only two weeks into this blog, and I’ve already gone through my first week-long slump. On the surface, this seems problematic for the future of this blog, but I have a really good excuse. Two really good excuses, in fact.
The first excuse is that my roommates and I recently purchased a Ping Pong table. And if you have ever purchased a Ping Pong table before, you know what it’s like. The best thing I can compare it to is the first couple of months with a new girlfriend (or boyfriend), when you simply cannot get enough of that person. You want to see them in the morning, afternoon and night.
Since last Thursday, that has been my roommates and I with our Ping Pong table.
My second excuse is that I was the host of rollicking housewarming party on Saturday. The toughest part about hosting the soiree was that we were forced to put the Ping Pong table away for the night. Once it was nesting cozily in the closet, the party was a great success. Unfortunately, my vicious hangover prevented me from writing anything on Sunday, which had been my plan.
But besides making my head throb like a cartoon heartbeat for the better part of the Lord’s Day, the party helped prove two pet theories of mine. They are as follows, 1) Whether they want to admit it or not, everyone loves Mariah Carey, and 2) About 90 percent of the population thinks they are really good at Ping Pong.
It might be deemed “gay” to admit as much, but I love Mariah Carey. I came to this realization over a number of years, and it hit home when I was in Ireland a few years back and a Mariah compilation came on in a bar. About five songs in, I said to myself, “holy shit, Mariah has a bunch of great songs.”
I was closeted about my Carey crush for a couple of years, but I will now openly admit it. I think it’s because I realized that most people feel the same way about Mariah. And though a lot of us like to turn our noses at pop music, there’s no doubt that there’s something to be said about a great pop song, and the bottom line is that Mariah knows how to make a great freaking pop song.
The power of a great pop song comes through most powerfully at a party. I take a bit of pride in putting together a fun party mix, and I felt very good about the combo I had diced up for Saturday’s festivities. Through the course of the 80-song mix, I threw in three separate songs that featured Ms. Carey, and while I got a good response for the music of the evening, there was not one song that got more props than, “Always Be My Baby.”
Eyes lit up throughout the room as soon Carey piped in with the first “doo-doo-doo, ah”, and at least three people (I was pretty drunk, so keeping track was tough) walked up to me and said something along the lines of, “great song choice! You are the handsomest man at this party.” OK, I might have made the second part of that up.
To further prove the resonance of Mariah, I remember being in a city park in Columbus, Ohio this past October. A group of four teenage boys decked out in urban-wear du jour strolled past me and sat down at a bench with a boom box. While I was still in earshot, I could hear them pumping the aforementioned Mariah track that was such a hit with my friends on Saturday night.
When Mariah wasn’t the topic of conversation, my roommates and I were pimping our new Ping Pong table. We’re pretty proud of it, and we wanted to share that pride with our friends, who invariably all proclaimed to be the second coming of Forrest Gump, who despite being fictional, is the most famous Ping Ponger ever.
Now I’m not saying these people are lying, because it’s not that hard to be a serviceable Ponger. However, there has to be a spectrum of skill, and someone has to be at the bottom. I used to play religiously at summer camp, so I’ve always fancied myself as within the top 20 percent of recreational players. This belief was brought into question in college when my friends and I used to play after dinner, and I came face to face with many players who had grown up with a table in their suburban rec room. I never had such a luxury, so my play was limited to the summer.
What struck me most was that everyone in my group of friends claimed to be an excellent player. And while everyone could play, there was clearly a hierarchy. It was then that I first came up with my theory that everyone claims to be good at the game.
I’d always wanted a Ping Pong table to call my own, and now the dream has been fulfilled. And now that I have a table, I’m sure I can vault myself back into my imaginary top 20 percent. Like I said, everyone (including me) thinks they are great at the game.
Ping Pong and I have always shared a special bond, though I can’t really describe it. I’ll just quote Mariah and say, “we belong together.”
***Sorry I missed last week’s installment of “The Gauntlet Report.” I didn’t get to watch it until Saturday, and it seemed silly to write it up three days later. I’ll have it this week though. I think.
The first excuse is that my roommates and I recently purchased a Ping Pong table. And if you have ever purchased a Ping Pong table before, you know what it’s like. The best thing I can compare it to is the first couple of months with a new girlfriend (or boyfriend), when you simply cannot get enough of that person. You want to see them in the morning, afternoon and night.
Since last Thursday, that has been my roommates and I with our Ping Pong table.
My second excuse is that I was the host of rollicking housewarming party on Saturday. The toughest part about hosting the soiree was that we were forced to put the Ping Pong table away for the night. Once it was nesting cozily in the closet, the party was a great success. Unfortunately, my vicious hangover prevented me from writing anything on Sunday, which had been my plan.
But besides making my head throb like a cartoon heartbeat for the better part of the Lord’s Day, the party helped prove two pet theories of mine. They are as follows, 1) Whether they want to admit it or not, everyone loves Mariah Carey, and 2) About 90 percent of the population thinks they are really good at Ping Pong.
It might be deemed “gay” to admit as much, but I love Mariah Carey. I came to this realization over a number of years, and it hit home when I was in Ireland a few years back and a Mariah compilation came on in a bar. About five songs in, I said to myself, “holy shit, Mariah has a bunch of great songs.”
I was closeted about my Carey crush for a couple of years, but I will now openly admit it. I think it’s because I realized that most people feel the same way about Mariah. And though a lot of us like to turn our noses at pop music, there’s no doubt that there’s something to be said about a great pop song, and the bottom line is that Mariah knows how to make a great freaking pop song.
The power of a great pop song comes through most powerfully at a party. I take a bit of pride in putting together a fun party mix, and I felt very good about the combo I had diced up for Saturday’s festivities. Through the course of the 80-song mix, I threw in three separate songs that featured Ms. Carey, and while I got a good response for the music of the evening, there was not one song that got more props than, “Always Be My Baby.”
Eyes lit up throughout the room as soon Carey piped in with the first “doo-doo-doo, ah”, and at least three people (I was pretty drunk, so keeping track was tough) walked up to me and said something along the lines of, “great song choice! You are the handsomest man at this party.” OK, I might have made the second part of that up.
To further prove the resonance of Mariah, I remember being in a city park in Columbus, Ohio this past October. A group of four teenage boys decked out in urban-wear du jour strolled past me and sat down at a bench with a boom box. While I was still in earshot, I could hear them pumping the aforementioned Mariah track that was such a hit with my friends on Saturday night.
When Mariah wasn’t the topic of conversation, my roommates and I were pimping our new Ping Pong table. We’re pretty proud of it, and we wanted to share that pride with our friends, who invariably all proclaimed to be the second coming of Forrest Gump, who despite being fictional, is the most famous Ping Ponger ever.
Now I’m not saying these people are lying, because it’s not that hard to be a serviceable Ponger. However, there has to be a spectrum of skill, and someone has to be at the bottom. I used to play religiously at summer camp, so I’ve always fancied myself as within the top 20 percent of recreational players. This belief was brought into question in college when my friends and I used to play after dinner, and I came face to face with many players who had grown up with a table in their suburban rec room. I never had such a luxury, so my play was limited to the summer.
What struck me most was that everyone in my group of friends claimed to be an excellent player. And while everyone could play, there was clearly a hierarchy. It was then that I first came up with my theory that everyone claims to be good at the game.
I’d always wanted a Ping Pong table to call my own, and now the dream has been fulfilled. And now that I have a table, I’m sure I can vault myself back into my imaginary top 20 percent. Like I said, everyone (including me) thinks they are great at the game.
Ping Pong and I have always shared a special bond, though I can’t really describe it. I’ll just quote Mariah and say, “we belong together.”
***Sorry I missed last week’s installment of “The Gauntlet Report.” I didn’t get to watch it until Saturday, and it seemed silly to write it up three days later. I’ll have it this week though. I think.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
David Tyree Is My Homey
I’ll be honest, I figured that the next time one of my teams won a championship, it would be the Mets.
It turned out to be the Giants, however, and I’m not complaining. Sunday was as much fun as I’ve had watching a sporting event in a long time, and the best part about it was seeing a player I adopted as a personal favorite many years back emerge as a surprise hero.
I know I’m not alone in falling prey to what I call the “I knew him back when” phenomenon. There’s something we seem to enjoy about discovering something or someone before everyone else.
It’s the reason you’ll hear people brag about the time they saw The Shins play at some tiny club in bumfuck Texas before Zach Braff decided to put them on the “Garden State” soundtrack, and it’s why my friends roll their eyes when I tell them about the time I saw Ryan Braun hitting the crap out of the ball at batting practice in Greensboro while playing in low Class A. And it’s why I was thrilled to see David Tyree make what was probably the greatest c
atch in Super Bowl history.
Hardcore Giants fans will remember a time around the turn of the century when their special teams were absolutely abysmal. It got so bad at one point that coach Jim Fassel started using his starters because the typical mix of back-up defensive backs and wide receivers were not getting it done. Watching the Giants try to cover a kick was like trying to watch Rocky Balboa chasing the chicken to work on his quickness.
Enter David Tyree.
Even though Tyree was a solid wide receiver while playing at Syracuse, he was drafted in the sixth round in 2003 based solely on his special teams skills. Immediately, my friend Dan and I decided that Tyree was going to be a difference maker. And for once, we were right.
With Tyree covering kicks, the Giants had a special teams weapon unseen since the days of Reyna Thompson. He was so good that he even made the Pro Bowl in 2005 as a special teamer, and Dan and I felt vindicated for having jumped on the Tyree bandwagon so early. At one point we even discussed getting Tyree jerseys.
As you can imagine, we were ecstatic to see Tyree not only make the aforementioned catch that seemed suited for Barnum & Bailey, but also add a TD catch. I felt an even greater bond with Tyree because he is from Montclair, N.J., which is where my family owned a Five-and-Dime for generations.
After the Giants stunning victory, Dan and I were joined by our friend Dave (another Giants fan) walking down the streets of Brooklyn and reveling with other Big Blue faithful. More than once I heard some lesser fan exclaim, “who the fuck is that Tyree guy?”
All I could do was smile and think, “man, those Tyree jerseys would look pretty cool right now.”
It turned out to be the Giants, however, and I’m not complaining. Sunday was as much fun as I’ve had watching a sporting event in a long time, and the best part about it was seeing a player I adopted as a personal favorite many years back emerge as a surprise hero.
I know I’m not alone in falling prey to what I call the “I knew him back when” phenomenon. There’s something we seem to enjoy about discovering something or someone before everyone else.
It’s the reason you’ll hear people brag about the time they saw The Shins play at some tiny club in bumfuck Texas before Zach Braff decided to put them on the “Garden State” soundtrack, and it’s why my friends roll their eyes when I tell them about the time I saw Ryan Braun hitting the crap out of the ball at batting practice in Greensboro while playing in low Class A. And it’s why I was thrilled to see David Tyree make what was probably the greatest c
atch in Super Bowl history.Hardcore Giants fans will remember a time around the turn of the century when their special teams were absolutely abysmal. It got so bad at one point that coach Jim Fassel started using his starters because the typical mix of back-up defensive backs and wide receivers were not getting it done. Watching the Giants try to cover a kick was like trying to watch Rocky Balboa chasing the chicken to work on his quickness.
Enter David Tyree.
Even though Tyree was a solid wide receiver while playing at Syracuse, he was drafted in the sixth round in 2003 based solely on his special teams skills. Immediately, my friend Dan and I decided that Tyree was going to be a difference maker. And for once, we were right.
With Tyree covering kicks, the Giants had a special teams weapon unseen since the days of Reyna Thompson. He was so good that he even made the Pro Bowl in 2005 as a special teamer, and Dan and I felt vindicated for having jumped on the Tyree bandwagon so early. At one point we even discussed getting Tyree jerseys.
As you can imagine, we were ecstatic to see Tyree not only make the aforementioned catch that seemed suited for Barnum & Bailey, but also add a TD catch. I felt an even greater bond with Tyree because he is from Montclair, N.J., which is where my family owned a Five-and-Dime for generations.
After the Giants stunning victory, Dan and I were joined by our friend Dave (another Giants fan) walking down the streets of Brooklyn and reveling with other Big Blue faithful. More than once I heard some lesser fan exclaim, “who the fuck is that Tyree guy?”
All I could do was smile and think, “man, those Tyree jerseys would look pretty cool right now.”
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