The great thing about sports is the way they make you feel. For diehard fans, moods are determined by outcomes of sporting events. A victory lifts you beyond the point of elation to a kind of happiness you only dreamt about. A crushing defeat stays with you for weeks, rendering you a bit more fragile and even more determined the following year. We experience both of these moods, and everything in between, several times a month, the constant flip flopping something we've come to expect and as some would admit - it's what we've become addicted to. It's our nicotine, our caffeine; it keeps us coming back year after year. We suffer through the Game 7 losses and the devastating injuries, secretly enjoying the knowledge that all of the bruises and bandages will only make the victories that much sweeter.

Currently, sports excitement is at a bit of a lull. Baseball is on vacation, the NHL is locked out, basketball is reeling from yet another disappointment, the NFL's product is disintegrating each and every year thanks to parity, and my 10-1 football team is halfway across the country and rarely shown on national tv here in Dallas. If not for the constant stream of DVDs, books, and magazines released in the wake of the Red Sox Championship season, I'd be in serious sports withdrawal. As it is, I'm miserable about the lack of hockey, trying desperately to fall in love with the current incarnation of the Sixers, and praying that the Eagles extend this season as long as possible. Day in and day out, I find myself wondering if it is April yet.

And then, today, I am reminded of what it is I love most about sports. The emotion, the up and down, the roller coaster ride that no other pastime can provide.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I read a post on SoSH from John Henry, the owner of the Boston Red Sox. This is what ownership should be. This is what every fanbase deserves. Tears of thanks are being shed all over New England today. Red Sox Nation, we are incredibly lucky.

Thirty minutes later, I found a series of articles in the Philadelphia Daily News regarding the current state of sports in the city. While I find it hard to believe myself, I realize that most of you are not haunted daily by this fact, and in fact probably aren't even aware of it, so let me point out that no city with 4 major sports teams has gone longer without a championship than Philadelphia. Stan Hochman of the Daily News takes a look at each of the teams and examines why:

Flyers Eagles Sixers Phillies

A kick to the crotch would surely hurt less than the simple facts laid out by those 4 articles. Yes, Philadelphia is a frustrated city. But as I go back and read John Henry's message to the Red Sox fans who have finally been rewarded after decades of heartbreak, a smile creeps onto my face. Someday, all of this will be worth it.

I can't wait.

After an eventful holiday, I have returned back from the homeland. No, not Israel, smartass. Philadelphia, the city of Brotherly Love, the city I called home for the first 18 years of my life. I am overwhelmed by the amount of blogs and message boards I have to get caught up on, not to mention my own blog that has been ignored in favor of leftovers and football. I had planned on posting a long Thanksgiving entry giving thanks for all of the amazing things that happened this year, but my parents' combination of a dial-up connection and the first computer ever made rendered me all but computerless. So that gets filed away for next year and I'm forced to attempt a recap of the ridiculous 6 days that were my Thanksgiving vacation.

Thanksgiving is my all-time favorite holiday of the year, though it is now being challenged by October 27th, The Greatest Day There Ever Was. Every year, my parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and I gather at my house, stuff our faces and watch the next best thing to the Eagles - the hated Cowboys. Our living room sounds like a truck stop, and I'm almost certain that all of that white hot hate for the Cowboys causes my house to glow. I think they can see it from Space.


A family bound by hate. Thanks, NFL.

Anyway, the trip got off to a rocky start when our flight was delayed because the plane, on the way to Dallas, ran out of gas. Seriously. The plane ran out of gas. When my college roommate ran out of gas on the highway because he was too stoned to notice the blinking red light five inches from his face, he got ridiculed and I had a good laugh. When US Air does it, I am forced to stand in line for 2 hours waiting to be rerouted. Finally, we were put on a different flight. On a different airline. Instead of a DFW-Charlotte, Charlotte-Philly flight, we were scheduled to fly direct to Philly on American. Normally, getting a direct flight instead of a layover would be cause to celebrate. Unless, of course, US Air sends your luggage to Charlotte without you.

Imagine the amount of time you would enjoy spending in a cramped 100-degree Baggage Claim office in the Philadelphia airport at midnight, and then multiply by one bazillion. That's how long we were there. Apparently, they don't require silly things like qualifications and computer skills to work there. Their hiring process clearly involves little more than drawing names from a hat. If you're looking for work but lack all basic skills necessary, consider the Baggage Claim office. Cesar Crespo, I've called ahead, and they've already got a nametag waiting for you.

Back to our luggage. Mine arrived at my doorstep on Wednesday evening. Chris' bag? Still waiting. Seriously.

And so, most of our vacation was spent wondering where the missing suitcase was and trying to replace the things that had been inside. There's still hope that the bag will be returned to us, but still...there's the chance that somewhere in a small town outside Charlotte there is a sixty year-old US Air employee rocking a Les Savy Fav t-shirt and a pair of brand new New Balance sneakers.

Of course, we managed to escape airline hell for a couple days and there are a couple of highlights worth mentioning. Thanksgiving was just as predicted. I ate much more than I should have, watched the Cowboys win The Worst Football Game In History, and kicked Chris' ass in board games. Good times all around. The shining moment of the holiday came moments after we sat down for Thanksgiving dinner. My cousin suggested we go around the table and give thanks for something. My family is anything but traditional, so one by one, we each tried to come up with a suggestion funnier than the previous one. I was thankful for the World Series parade in Boston. My mom was thankful for the kids cleaning the dishes following dinner, something we hadn't volunteered or agreed to do. And then, my dad, always looking to get a rise out of the group, launched into an Eagles chant. It took a split second for everyone else to join in and there, at the dinner table, the entire family took a break from their stuffing and mashed potatoes to take part in the one and only "E-A-G-L-E-S - - EAGLES!!!" chant.

Any fears I had as a child about being adopted were thrown out the window at that moment. This crazy bunch of lunatics reciting football cheers while eating off the good china was definitely my family.
_________________________________

I'm fully aware that just a few posts ago, I tore apart the NBA and in part, blamed the fans for supporting a subpar product. I still maintain all of those things I wrote, and think the NBA has a long way to come, but just wanted to point out my hypocrisy before you got the chance. In response, all I can offer is:

Oops.

As a Flyers season ticket holder, I was offered the opportunity to purchase tickets for Friday's Sixers/Wizards game at a discounted price. For $45 I'd get a lower level ticket as well as an invite to an hour-long brunch with Flyers Alumni. What more could a Philly girl ask for? Sign me up!

Chris and I stepped into the Hall of Fame room at the Wachovia Center at noon and I instantly caught sight of Brian Propp. I loved him when I was a kid, and I've always felt bad that he has never forgiven himself for giving up on the infamous Leon Stickle non-call play in the 1980 playoffs. But a girl has her priorities, so I ignored Propp and made a beeline for the bar, where they were serving free Yuengling lager. We found ourselves a permanent place in the beer line and enjoyed free hors de' vors while hobnobbing with former Cup winners like Bob "The Hound" Kelly and Jim and Joe Watson. We each grabbed another beer for the road and made our way down to our seats, which were 20 rows up behind the basket. I can't even remember the last Sixers game I attended in Philly. I saw them play in Boston a few times during college, and watched them get destroyed by the Mavs last season here in Dallas, but it's been years since I enjoyed a game as part of the home crowd. My feelings on basketball and specifically the NBA have not been positive as of late, but I was craving Philly sports and with the NHL on strike, this was my only option. Plus, I'll never pass up a chance to watch Iverson play.

Sure, the Sixers should have blown out the Washington Wizards. Sure, Marc Jackson's two missed freethrows with 5 seconds left in the game are inexcusable. And sure, the fact that the Sixers allowed the Wizards to tie the game with a buzzer beating three-pointer...well, it sucked. But the game could not have played out any better. After allowing Washington to score the first 5 points in OT, the Sixers came storming back and won the game after Iverson stole the ball on a Wizards inbound pass for a layup as time expired. Perhaps it was the 5 beers I drained on an empty stomach. Or maybe it was the electricity in the building that afternoon as Iverson drove down the court in slow motion for the game-winning layup. Either way, that game made me love basketball again.

I know, I'm a hypocrite. But for me, sports are like family. They may piss you off from time to time, and they may need you to set them straight every once in a while, but you never stay mad for long. Because they've been there since you were a kid, and you can't imagine life without them.

One year ago today, Curt Schilling agreed to be a member of the Boston Red Sox.

Thank you , Curt. For everything.

National Basketball Association - 1949-2004 - RIP

The NBA is dying a slow death. Ron Artest asks for 2 months of vacation, in the beginning of the season, so he can promote the release of his rap album. Vince Carter is told he can no longer wear his IPOD during warmup. And most recently, the Pistons and Pacers - and the fans - are involved in perhaps the most vicious brawl in sports history. So who is to blame? The millionaire athletes for behaving like children? The coaches for failing to properly punish their players? The owners for encouraging such behavior with big dollar contracts to accused criminals? The league for allowing the problem to fester for this long? College coaches for encouraging this behavior at a young age? The fans for continuing to shell out dollars despite the rapidly declining value of the product?

While it would be easier to find one scapegoat on which to lay all of the blame, the answer is - all of the above.

COLLEGE COACHES

Imagine, for a second, that you have spent the first 18 years of your life in a lower -to-middle class urban neighborhood. Your high school was underfunded; half of the teachers had been let go and the textbooks were outdated and falling apart. Luckily for you, your basketball coach saw to it that you'd graduate on time, despite missing loads of classes for practice and road trips. A few months later, after being heavily recruited by a dozen schools, you begin life as a college freshman on a full basketball scholarship. You are given a class schedule, but all of your teammates have told you not to bother worrying about such trivial things like homework and exams. "They'll pass you," they whisper during practice. You are given odd jobs, for which you are rewarded with cash, cars, and jewelry. You are being treated like royalty, all for playing basketball.

And we expect these kids to say no? "No thanks, coach. You keep that hundred thousand dollars. I'm here to go to class and graduate in four years." That's asking a bit much. These college coaches play a key role in shaping the futures of these young men, but when it comes right down to it, they'd rather win.

ATHLETES

Of course, laying the blame on the college coaches shouldn't take away from the fact that these athletes are adults, and they should be expected to act like it. Sure, the fans are wrong to throw anything onto the court, but barreling into the crowd and throwing punches is not an appropriate response. These guys are biting the hand that feeds them, and if they don't improve their behavior, they'll be left wondering what happened to a once flourishing franchise.

OWNERS/LEAGUE OFFICIALS

A central factor behind many of the NBA's problems is that the people running it (ie: rich white businessmen) can't identify with the people playing in it (rich black men). You can govern a people that you don't understand. Instead of wasting your time - and ours - fussing over a player listening to his IPOD during practice, perhaps you should be worrying about the well-being and maturation of your players. They are the business' biggest asset - without them, the owners have nothing. Wouldn't it be smart to treat them like equals instead of children?

These days, the league seems to have all of their priorities out of whack. Players can return from rape trials and murder trials and be treated like basketball royalty. But don't you dare think of disagreeing with the ref on the court or you'll be tossed from the game. Inconsistencies like these makes the current incarnation of the sport nearly unwatchable.

COACHES

Like college coaches, NBA coaches' ability to properly punish their players is clouded by a desire to win. While fans would prefer to see Ron Artest on the floor, it's for the betterment of the league if he is properly punished for stepping out of line. Too often coaches let despicable behavior slide because a punishment would hurt the team's chances. But to save their team, they just might be killing their sport.

FANS

Yes, fans. We share a bit of the blame here as well. We still buy Artest jerseys. We still buy overpriced tickets to go watch our favorite team. We bought Denis Rodman's book. By opening our wallets, we're sending the message that their behavior is acceptable, and for this reason, we must be held accountable.


Here's the part of the article where a call to action is described and a solution is laid out. If only it were that simple. The aforementioned parties have let things get out of hand on their end, and after the way events unfolded on Friday night, it appears as though it's too late.

The NBA is survived by commissioner David Stern and a lot of disappointed fans.

Halfway through the football season, one thing has become quite clear: Terrell Owens and the city of Philadelphia were made for each other.

9 out of 10 times, that sentence would be followed by a lengthy diatribe about how a city like Philadelphia, with its classless sports fans, is deserving of T.O.'s piss poor attitude. But sass-a-thon.com is not a part of the national media that aims to constantly create, tear down, and recreate heroes and villains in an effort to perpetuate the good vs evil view of sports so they can sell papers.

I’ve long been of the opinion that Philadelphia is a city that is misunderstood. It has its shortcomings, of course, but it gets a bad rap as far as its attitude goes.*

Much like T.O.

The one thing I learned in my 18 years in Philadelphia, aside from my truck driver vocabulary and penchant for neon orange cheese in a jar, is that you'd be hard-pressed to find another city full of such devoted, passionate, hardcore fans. Sure, Philadelphians are pessimistic. Sure, we're bitter. Sure, we complain. A lot. But we're nowhere near as brutal as they say we are.

It's no secret that the city of Philadelphia has a reputation of being a nasty sports city. You've heard it all before: we threw snowballs at Santa, threw batteries at JD Drew, booed Kobe Bryant, cheered Michael Irvin's concussion, and so on. But 95% of those stories have changed a bit with each telling, and today they in no way resemble the true stories they once were.

Thanks to hundreds of media members, starting with Howard Kosell, the snowball incident has been exaggerated time and time again. In reality, the snowball fight between the fans and Santa was meant to be fun, and even the guy who wore the Santa suit that fateful day has stated that he "thought it was funny." 35 years later, the incident is still brought up to tar and feather a city that was just trying to have a little bit of fun at a football game. Imagine that.

Somehow, the two batteries that were thrown at JD Drew in the summer of 1999 became thousands of batteries once newspaper deadlines had been met. Two batteries. Two idiots. That's all it was.

Sure, Kobe Bryant got booed at the NBA All Star game in Philly a few years back. But this one I won't deny. No, this one we're proud of. Philadelphia is a blue-collar town. We like our athletes tough, gritty and hard working. We don't like a guy who wears sunglasses inside his high school gym during the press conference he called to announce he is entering the draft. We don't like a guy who says, during the 2001 finals against the Sixers, "Going home means nothing to me. It's just basketball, and we want to tear those fans' hearts out." One thing about Philadelphians - we are loyal and we are vindictive. We can criticize ourselves. But you better not even think about it.


Terrell Owens has the reputation of a bad boy, a clubhouse cancer, a selfish player, a troublemaker. While I'm not fond of his speaking out about his former QB's sexual preference, I've recently come to realize that the guy isn't half as bad as the media makes him out to be.

Some say T.O. is selfish, that he's always asking for the ball. This isn't basketball, and the consequences aren't the same. I want a guy on my team who wants the QB throwing to him every down. That means he thinks he can make the plays, and when is the last time confidence and a hunger for the game hurt a team?

Some say T.O. is hard to get along with, a bad teammate that disrupts games and practices. Why, then, are he and McNabb neighbors and best friends? Why, then, are there only reports of a very happy locker room? Why, then, are the Eagles 8-1?

And then there's the recent Ray Lewis incident. Against the Ravens, after yet another touchdown, Owens imitated a Ray Lewis celebration dance in the end zone, much to the chagrin of Lewis and, as it turns out, players around the league. He received loads of emails from fans and players criticizing him for mocking Lewis. Did Lewis have this trademarked in the offseason? I apparently didn't get that memo. This is a league in which players can return from being accused of rape, murder, drug possession, and spousal abuse and still be embraced by the league and the fans. Here's a guy excelling at a sport he loves, and having fun doing it, and he's being treated like a criminal.

T.O. has said it, and Shannon Sharpe before him. If you don't want him to make you look bad in the end zone, don't let him get there.

So far, no one has been able to stop him.

And no one in Philadelphia is complaining.

For once.

_________________________________________
* Thank you to the city of Detroit for proving tonight that Philadelphia is far from the most evil sports city in the country. But, more on that tomorrow.

You like girls. You like football.


Luckily for you, we've combined the two.

This is the first and last time you will read about the ridiculous overreaction to the Monday Night Football intro skit on this website. But, this quote regarding the aforementioned skit is worth preserving for all of eternity.

"I've seen it," McNabb said. "I think football is a sexy sport. I'm pretty sexy."

Yesterday Vlad Guerrero was awarded the title of American League MVP. Sure, he deserved it. But aside from the few choice words I had immediately following his ALDS Game 3 grand slam, I have very few words to offer on the subject of Guerrero. No, I'm more concerned with our MVP. The guy for whom the national media predicted an attitude problem of epic proportions after the failed A-Rod trade. The guy who did what Nomar could not, and as a result, is a World Champion.

An open letter to Mr. Manny Ramirez:


Dear Manny,

The words "thank you" don't seem like enough for what you did this past season. And I'm not just talking about the homeruns, the RBI, the occasional gold glove caliber grab. No, this season you did much more for the Sox. You became a man. You became a Dirt Dog. You became a Bostonian.

You became a legend.

No one would have been surprised had you arrived at spring training with a chip as massive as Eck's mustache on your shoulder. Last season was a bit tumultuous, and the rift between you and the fans had widened after your comments about longing to play in pinstripes and your rumored night on the town with Enrique Wilson. The offseason saw you placed on waivers, available to anyone who was willing to pay the small fee of $20,000 and the five-year balance of your eight-year contract worth $160 million.

For Sale: Tremendous hitter with limited fielding abilities. Attitude and discipline problems included free of charge if you are interested.

But no one was.

Just when we thought things might return to normal, it became public that the Red Sox were trying to trade you to Texas for Alex Rodriquez and Nomar to Chicago in exchange for Magglio Ordonez. After weeks of speculation and trade talks, the deals fell through and A-Rod became a Yankee.

The national media was drooling at all of the story opportunities. The Boston clubhouse will implode next season, we were told. Manny will never forgive Boston management for this, they shouted excitedly, wiping the drool from their chins. He'll refuse to play, he'll demand a trade, he'll shut out his teammates and the fans. They couldn't print the stories fast enough.

But they were wrong.

You showed up in Fort Myers with a smile and a renewed love of the game. While the business of the game was too much for Nomar to handle, you took it in stride. He let it eat at him through the entire offseason, and by the time the season rolled around, management had a mess on their hands. But you were a different story. You realized after the near trade that you were happy to be staying in Boston, and that perhaps it was time to let the media and the fans see that.

It would be shortsighted not to mention your teammates roles in this makeover, specifically Kevin Millar and David Ortiz. The Spring Training interview in which Millar served as your personal moderator was the first sign to the fans that we were seeing a different Manny Ramirez. We later found out that, behind the scenes, Millar and Ortiz were encouraging you to open up to the public. And then, in a flurry of activity, you transformed yourself into one of the most lovable Red Sox of all time. You launched a website. You appeared in commercials. You formed a charity. You appeared in public with your wife and son.

The media was shocked. They raced to work and spent hours deleting their backlog of "The Downfall of Manny and the Red Sox" stories and, through clenched teeth, penned new articles about the "new" Manny Ramirez and your miraculous makeover.

The fans, on the other hand, were overjoyed. What normally would have been a big story in Boston became a huge story when your behavior was juxtaposed with that of a particular shortstop across the clubhouse. Nomar continued to sulk and nurse his bruised ego. You continued to come out of your shell and show off your sparkling personality, sharp wit, and surprisingly determined effort in the field. Most of the fans and media would have predicted it would be the other way around. They did, in fact, and even that didn't bother you. Ladies and Gentlemen of Boston, please welcome Manny Ramirez, Zen Master.

All season long, everywhere we turned, there you were: smiling, laughing, hugging, playing practical jokes, and rubbing heads with Pedro. In just a few months, you went from a distant millionaire athlete to a loveable teddybear that has an uncanny knack for absolutely crushing a baseball.

Looking back at the entire Championship season (yes, it is worthy of a capital C), this hits me as one of the biggest pieces to the gigantic puzzle management struggled to put together. Had you arrived in Fort Myers holding a grudge, there's no telling what kind of mess the 2004 season would have become. Instead, you realized that you wanted to change and you made it happen. And that was just as important as your 43 homeruns.

When I am 80 years old and I think back to 2004, the year the Red Sox achieved the unachievable, I will remember this: A World Series trophy. An eight game win streak in the playoffs. And a smiling Manny Ramirez.

Thank you.

Sass-a-thon.com

seriously. I miss hockey.

49-21.


Yes, that's exactly the kind of destruction I was hoping for tonight. Thank you, football gods.

It's 1am, my alarm goes off in 5 hours, and I'm exhausted. The shitty Coors Light and adrenaline drop hit me at once, and I have got to get my ass into bed. So I'll let the numbers do the talking, while I can still get 5 hours of sleep.

*The Eagles scored 28 points on the home team in the 2nd quarter, a new franchise record for the Cowboys.

*Eagles offense was 3-3 in the red zone.

*485 total yards for the Birds.

*McNabb was 15-of-28 for 345 yards, with four TD passes and no interceptions.

*Terrell Owens caught six passes for 134 yards and 3 touchdowns.

*49 points is the most Dallas has ever given up at Texas Stadium. (I nearly fell out of my chair with excitement after typing that.)

Without a doubt, the highlight of the night, aside from posing for pictures in the parking in exchange for free beer, was watching McNabb evade the entire defensive line, run sideline to sideline, and connect with Freddie Mitchell for a 60-yard completion on third down. I have got to find a replay of that. Hey, I'll bet ESPNEWS is showing highlights...

Make that 4 hours of sleep....

I hate the Dallas Cowboys. I have always hated the Dallas Cowboys. I can't remember a time when I heard the words "Dallas Cowboys" and didn't immediately recoil in revulsion. This is what growing up in Philadelphia will do to you. And it's not just me. Black, white, man, woman, child...Philadelphians are bound by their hatred of the Cowboys. Take, for example, my mom's response to the news that I was moving to Dallas after college.

"You're moving to Cowboys country??"

It's impossible to convey the proper amount of disgust in that sentence over the Internet, but you get the point. The Cowboys are the enemy and therefore, Dallas is the enemy. The city, its people, its landmarks - we hate it all.

Hey, no one said we were logical in our passion.

Anyway, 53 weeks ago, I walked into Texas Stadium for my first Eagles/Cowboys game in enemy territory. Things have changed a bit since I was a kid, and now it's typically the Eagles who administer the yearly ass-kicking and not the other way around. I was thrilled for the opportunity to see the destruction of the cocky Cowboys firsthand, and in preparation, I had been talking shit at work for weeks.

But, in true Philly fashion, things didn't exactly go according to plan.

On the first play of the game, the Cowboys took advantage of a botched Eagles onside kick and put points on the board before I even made it to my seat. Three seconds into the game. Three seconds! The walk from the concourse down to my seats was humiliating, and not at all how I had imagined my first experience at Texas Stadium. I spent the rest of the afternoon listening to vile southern accents explain to me that Rush Limbaugh was right about McNabb, that he was a shitty quarterback who only got attention because of his skin color.

This from a group of guys who were wearing Quincy Carter jerseys.


Seriously. Quincy Carter jerseys! Did you even know they made those?


Fast forward to today: November 15, 2004. Finally. Redemption.

Tonight, The Eagles are in town to take on the Cowboys on Monday Night Football, a stage on which the Eagles always shine. Halfway through the season, the Birds are 7-1, while the Cowboys are a pitiful 3-5. Everything is in place for the a magnificent Eagles thrashing. But this is Philadelphia we're talking about. Anything's possible.


Things I'm feeling good about:
*The Eagles are coming off an absolute collapse against the Pittsburgh Steelers and are sure to be hungry for a win.
*The Cowboys have a 41 year old quarterback. A 41 year old quarterback. I love the way that rolls off the tongue.
*Andy Reid's Eagles are 7-1 on Monday nights.
*Jeremiah Trotter is starting at middle linebacker. Should be interesting.
*This matchup: Torrin Tucker against Jevon Kearse
*41 year old Quarterback. Say it with me.

Things I'm not feeling so good about:
*The Eagles have only converted 28 of 87 (32.2 percent) third downs so far this season. That's good for 27th in the league. Not impressive.
*Where do we turn now that we can't blame the Vet's turf for injuries? These guys are all banged up and are probable for tonight: kicker David Akers (hip), safety Brian Dawkins (forearm), linebacker Dhani Jones (ankle), guard Jermane Mayberry (calf), tackle Sam Rayburn (concussion/elbow), offensive tackle Jon Runyan (groin), defensive tackle Corey Simon (calf), running back Brian Westbrook (rib) and cornerback Dexter Wynn (hamstring).
*LJ Smith - still hurt.
*The Eagles are atrocious against the run. (Thank god the Cowboys don't have anyone who can.)

When it's all over, I hope to see Terrell Owens dancing on that star in the middle of Texas Stadium's field. The star that Cowboys fans hold so close to their hearts. The star that Owens once before celebrated on, much to the resentment of Cowboys fans everywhere. The star that I may or may not have spit on during an early morning photo shoot at Texas Stadium.

Oh, but that's a different story for a different post.

For now, repeat after me...

41 year old quarterback.

There are three sports-related posts that are half written that hopefully I'll get around to posting at some point soon. Until then, there's this, thanks to Abbey.

oy is just yo backwards


Oh, and here's how I've been spending my weekend thus far. I'm currently obsessed.



And seriously, when did Jason Bateman get to be so damn sexy?

As far as sports years go, the year 2004 is worthy of being inducted in my personal Hall of Fame. From start to finish, this year has been more exciting and emotional than any other I can remember. You want proof? Ok, then.

It started off with playoff football and the Eagles defeating the Green Bay Packers on a miraculous 4th and 26 conversion. 4th and 26. No matter how many other football games I watch in my lifetime, I may never see anything as wonderfully surprising as Freddie Mitchell holding on to that ball at midfield. Fortunately, I had a full week to bask in the glory of that impressive victory. Unfortunately, I have learned to enjoy every second of it, because as an Eagles fan, it's probably all you'll get. And so, like clockwork, the next week I watched the heavily favored Eagles lose their third consecutive NFC Championship game - this time, to Carolina. Carolina! Yes, after three years, it shouldn't hurt anymore. The city shouldn't have expected much in an effort to keep expectations low. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. But then 4th and 26 came along and had everyone believing that 2004 would be the year. And once again, we were forced to put our Eagles jerseys and green face paint away for the long summer while repeating the Philadelphia mantra: maybe next year. (Can we go ahead and make that the official city motto? What paperwork do we need to fill out to make that happen?)

Meanwhile, across the street, the Flyers were quickly putting together one of their most impressive seasons in years. All Philly fans knew that this had to be the year the Flyers won the Stanley Cup, or else the wait could be much longer than anyone anticipated. A strike was looming and the Flyers' core group of veterans would never play together in orange and black again: this HAD to be the year. They got off to a great start, going undefeated in the month of November. Robert Esche won the starting job and was proving himself to be the most trustworthy Flyers goaltender since the 1986 version of Ron Hextall. Keith Primeau was proving he was deserving of the C on his chest, unlike so many others in recent memory. After a disappointingly streaky midseason, they got it together in time to make a run at a conference title. They came up short, though, finishing with a respectable 101 points, enough to win the Atlantic Division and finish third in the conference. Finally, it was time for the real season. And what better way to kick it off than a playoff series against the hated New Jersey Devils? Yes, the one year that the Flyers finish better than the Devils and look primed to make a serious playoff run, they are forced to open against the team that has repeatedly made them their bitch, Deliverance-style, since 1995. But hey - these were not your daddy's Flyers. No, these guys had Hitch behind the bench, Esche between the pipes, and Keith Primeau covering seemingly every other inch of the ice. In one of the most satisfying playoff series' of all time, the Flyers disposed of the Devils in 5 games and Philadelphians everywhere rejoiced. We threw our Scott Stevens voodoo dolls in the trash and were ready to get on with our lives. Or, more accurately, the semifinals. Next up for Philly were the Toronto Maple Leafs, who made up in grit and the occasional dirty hit what they lacked in talent. The Flyers took a quick 2 game lead and just as expected, the Leafs came through with their trademark sliminess and stole the next two games. There was Nick Antropov's cross-check on the back of Jeremy Roenick's neck. There was Darcy Tucker's obliterating hit on Sami Kapanen as he came off the bench. Steam was coming out of Philadelphia's collective ears, but none of that mattered. When May 4th rolled around, the Flyers disposed of the Leafs in 6 games and were on their way to Tampa Bay to fight for a chance to play for the most elusive trophy in all of sports. There were a lot of memorable moments in the semifinals, but none like those leading up to the series winning goal. It was Game 6 - overtime - and the Leafs had all of the momentum after a Mats Sundin goal forced the extra period. Coming off the bench, Sami Kapanen, a winger who was playing defense for the first time in his career because the Flyers' blue line was so depleted, got creamed along the boards by Darcy Tucker. He made 3 excruciating attempts at getting to his feet, each one a failure. As a fan, all of your greatest fears were being realized as you watched yet another Flyer struggle to get to his feet. All of a sudden, there was Keith Primeau, the Captain's C on his chest practically glowing at that point, leaning off the bench holding his stick out, attempting to guide Kapanen back to safety. Meanwhile, across the ice, Roenick was racing towards the goal. A few seconds and one wristshot later, the puck was in the net, the game was over, the series was won, and the Flyers were celebrating on the ice. And here's the kicker. Had Kapanen been unable to get back to the bench, play would have been whistled dead and the puck never finds the back of the net. As a sea of orange and black filled center ice, ESPN cut to a shot of Keith Primeau and Sami Kapanen on the Flyers bench, their heads rested against each others' as the Captain refused to leave his wounded teammate sitting alone on the bench while he celebrated their victory. As long as I remember that moment, I will remember that the 2003-2004 Philadelphia Flyers were the most amazing Flyers team I had the pleasure of watching in 25 years.

The Flyers ended up losing in the Conference Finals to the Tamp Bay Lightning in 7 games. The truth was that they were much too battered to continue. Their blue line was ravaged, their veterans were playing with broken fingers and sprained ankles, and the goalie and Captain that had carried them for so long just had nothing left to give. The hardest part of watching them skate off the ice for the final time was knowing that this was most likely the last chance at a serious Cup run for most of these guys. This time, they were good enough, but they weren't healthy enough, and so, the season came to an end. This is what I wrote the next day, and it still holds true:

Thank you. Thank you for one of the most entertaining hockey seasons I can remember. Thank you for overcoming injury, time and time again, and refusing to lay down. Thank you for extending an amazing season this far into spring..for giving an entire city something to believe in. Thank you for becoming the kind of captain this city has been waiting for. Thank you for leaving it all out there on the ice. Thank you for fighting through more debilitating injuries than one team should have to deal with in one season. Thank you for finally bringing in a coach who has rightfully earned the reputation of a genius. Thank you for reminding us what a beautiful, perfect sport hockey is. Thank you for finally sending the hated Devils home, finally realizing that you are good enough. Thank you for becoming the goalie we all knew you could be, and the kind we've been waiting a long time for. Thank you for your willingness to play positions that are not your own, for the good of the team. Thank you for being the most selfless Flyers team I've seen in 25 years.

I will not forget that Flyers team and the amazing fight they put up in the spring of 2004.

Sports have a funny way of giving immediately after they taketh away. By this time, baseball season was in full swing, giving me no time to mourn the recent loss of hockey. Of course, I can't not mention the intriguing offseason which included Manny being placed on waivers, the A-Rod to Boston rumors, his eventual trade to the Yankees, and the acquisition of Curt Schilling. By April, Sox fans were so hungry for baseball they were putting pine tar on their pancakes. A month into the season, the Red Sox were in town the weekend of my birthday, so I spent three full days at the Ballpark in Arlington enjoying what I'd been waiting for since the previous October. Unfortunately, the worst Red Sox losing streak of the season happened to coincide with their Texas trip, so I was forced to endure a sweep at the hands of the lowly Rangers. Despite the outcome, it was a blast. In July I made my annual trip to Boston, and this year my visit happened to coincide with the Yankees series at Fenway. Coincidence? Not so much. Claudia and I had shelled out $140 each for tickets to the July 24th Saturday afternoon game, and were hoping at least for a close game. Little did we know....

Flashback to a chilly afternoon in Boston in late July. It's a rather ordinary game thus far. The Yankees have taken an early lead, the fans are quiet, the sun has yet to peek out from behind the clouds over Fenway. And then it happens. Bronson Arroyo beans A-Rod on the elbow and all hell breaks loose. We all know the story: A-Rod gets in Tek's face, refuses to take 1st, and Tek attacks. The crowd erupts. The bullpen doors fly open and Mike Timlin leads the charge across the field. Kapler and the rest of the team charge out of the dugout. And then, 35,000 lucky fans were treated to a full-on bench-clearing melee. When the dust settled, Tanyon Sturtze was bloodied, A-Rod, Tek and Kapler had been ejected, and I was already sure that I had gotten $140 worth.

Fast forward to the 9th inning. Sox fans are nervous. We want to believe that our team can pull out a victory, but we've seen this a million times...we know how it usually ends. And then, a double for Nomar. No outs. Suddenly, we think, "maybe...just maybe." Trot flies out. More nail biting. Constant peeks at the scoreboard. Kevin Millar is up at the plate. Three homers the night before...can he possibly do it again? Then - a run scoring single. It suddenly feels like last October, when this team keeps finding new ways to win. One run down, one out, and last year's batting champ at the plate. Fingernails have been bitten to stubs, beers finished. Fans on their feet. A 3-1 count. And then, a solid shot that hangs for what seems like forever before dropping into the bullpen. A two run homerun...Sox win. Fenway erupts in what has to have been the most wild regular season celebration of all time. Dirty Water blasts over the soundsystem not once but twice, because the fans refuse to leave. Billy Mueller is interviewed on the jumbotron and the crowd goes crazy. The celebration lasts at least 20 minutes. Screaming, hugging, disbelief. The scene outside is no different. The streets are a sea of people looking just like they did when the Pats won the Super Bowl. Feeling like we are floating, we arrive at Boston Billiards, meet up with the rest of our friends, and continue the celebration. For the next three hours, every time the TVs airing ESPNEWS show the game highlights, the crowd erupts all over again. It was spectacular and 4 months later, still gives me chills.

The next few months were spent racing home from work every day so I could get logged on to MLB.TV in time for the first pitch. At this point, I was talking to other Sox bloggers more than my family. My social life revolved around watching Sox games and keeping track of the number of games between them and the Yankees. I spent so much time with those 25 guys that I feel like I should invite them to Thanksgiving dinner. And I was not alone. The passion of Red Sox Nation has always been intense and unwavering, but this year was different. Deep down, we all knew something special was happening.

As the adrenaline hangover from July 24th began to wear off, my friends and I booked a trip to Baltimore for the final regular season series of the year. We had all hoped that going into Baltimore, the Sox would be within a game of the Yankees, but after a rocky September the Yankees clinched the division title, rendering the Orioles series irrelevant. Still, there was nothing quite as cool as stepping off the plane into the BWI airport and seeing Sox fans everywhere. My Baltimore recap from a month ago...

Baltimore was a total love fest this weekend. Inside the dugout, Pedro was dancing and drawing caricatures of his teammates, Millar and Manny were cuddling for what seemed like hours, and the rest of the guys had smiles glued on their faces. In the stands, and in the bars surrounding Camden Yards, thirty-five thousand Red Sox fans hugged, high-fived, and drank their way through the last stress-free weekend of baseball that Red Sox Nation will enjoy for quite some time.

The next two/three days were a blur of baseball, Sox shirts, cheap beer, hangovers, tasteless pizza, baseball, greasy spoon diners, laughs, crab cakes, and…did I mention baseball? There were, however, more than a few moments that, alone, made the entire weekend well worth the price of admission.

Being a part of the standing ovation for Ellis Burks' final major league start, and seeing Ellis cross home plate for the final time in his career. Doug Mientkiewicz's 2 RBI game winning triple. Triple! Watching Pedro and Manny model their matching headbands and wristbands in the dugout. Spending nearly 8 hours on Saturday at one of the league's most beautiful ballparks with incredible friends. Seeing the signs that read BELIEVE all over Baltimore and convincing ourselves they were meant for us.

And of course, the shining moment of the weekend - the Sweet Caroline sing-a-long. Does the idea of sucking down a few beers, watching a doubleheader, and singing a Neil Diamond song at the top of your lungs with thousands of other people who are just as excited/nervous/hopeful as you bring tears to your eyes? It does if you're a Sox fan.

And then, this, from October 4th:

This is it. Starting tomorrow, an entire Nation will put work, relationships, love, and hobbies on the back burner. We will make late night runs to CVS to pick up Tums. We will try to be productive at work, and then convince ourselves that spending 10 minutes on SoSH for every 5 minutes of work that we finish is fair. I have had permachills since Saturday night - goosebumps that show no sign of disappearing until the playoffs are but a distant memory. I am excited. I am terrified. I am hopeful. I am doubtful. I truly believe this is the year, and I am scared to death to be wrong.

The month of October was nothing short of phenomenal. It began with Curt starting the Game 1 game thread on SoSH, which sent chills down the spines of every single member of the Nation. One million blog entries could not touch upon every amazing moment in the 14 playoff games we witnessed last month. Schilling's remarkable performance. Ortiz coming through when the team needed it most. And again. And again. Bellhorn's 3-run redemption. Johnny Damon's grand slam that silenced an entire city. Keith Foulke's balls of steel. Tim Wakefield giving up his game 4 start for the good of the team. Dave Roberts' stolen base that kept the season alive. Constant 2-out clutch hitting throughout the playoffs. Derek Lowe's dominating performances in all three clinching games. Trot's diving grab to the end the inning. Pedro knocking Matsui to the ground. The bloody sock. Every moment, every player, every pitch - I want these preserved in my mind for eternity and I fear the day when my memory has faded and I can't quite recall who recorded the last out in Game 6 of the ALCS.

And of course, the World Series parade. After 25 years of watching other cities celebrate their own championships on TV, I finally had the opportunity to experience one for myself. From my parade recap post:

Multicolored confetti filled the sky in front of us and the duckboats slowly made their way towards our spot on the street. Then it was a blur of screams, cheers, tears, hugs, and smiles from ear to ear. Johnny leaning out of the front of his duck boat, Bellhorn wearing the biggest smile I had ever seen, Pesky looking stunned by the enormity of the crowd, Manny holding up his "Jeter is golfing today - This is better" sign, Mientkiewicz in a backwards hat making my pants go crazy, Pedro and his Dominican flag cape, Trot pointing his video camera at us, Tek and Mirabelli sitting on the front of their duck boat, Theo talking into a microphone but being drowned out by the cheers, and the trophy. The beautiful gold trophy that inspired so many tears in grown men across the city. And just like that, it was over.

Instantly deciding we hadn't had enough, we made our way down to the Charles River, on the banks of which we stood, staring into the foggy distance waiting for one more taste of the parade. An hour later it was our chance to celebrate again. We watched as one of the boats swerved out of control, and it all made sense as it got closer and we saw that our very own ALDS MVP was in the drivers seat, too busy honking the horn like a madman to worry about steering it. There was Tek sitting on the side of the boat with his daughter on his lap. There was Schilling waving to the crowd, an intense look of satisfaction and appreciation in his eyes. There was awe in the eyes of every single player, amazed at the crowd that had gathered to thank them.

This brings us to November. Two months to go, halfway through the NFL season, and the Eagles are 7-1 after a brutal ass-kicking at the hands of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Still, our wounds have been licked, last year's bandages removed, and we are ready for whatever may come. Because despite the ongoing battle between heart and brain, heart always wins out, and when January arrives, we'll be vulnerable once again. We'll spend the next 8 Sundays (and the occasional Monday night) glued to the couch, watching as T.O. and Donovan attempt to bring to Philadelphia the satisfaction of being The Best.

I can't help but recall the following from a Philadelphia Inquirer article on the Eagles from last January:

We are gluttons for punishment. Frustration is our birthright. Our capacity for suffering is exceeded only by our capacity for loyalty.

And so here we are once again, at that familiar Philadelphia intersection, the corner of Perpetual Hope and Oh-Please-Not-Again.

And so, the cycle continues, as we move from one sport to another, heartbreak to championship and back again. And no matter what 2005 brings, I will never forget 2004. Because years like 2004 are why we watch sports in the first place. Years like 2004, with the ups and downs, highs and lows, are why life is worth living. And I feel incredibly lucky to have been here for this.

When you wait 25 years for something, when you spend your entire life imagining what that moment will be like, it's nothing if not surreal to suddenly find yourself right smack in the middle of it.

This past Saturday, I woke up from a month long dream and found myself standing on Boylston Street across from the Boston Public Library, amidst a throng of screaming red-and-blue clad diehards, peering through clouds of confetti as the Boston Red Sox World Series Championship Parade made its way toward me.

When you spend so many hours daydreaming about how and when a rite of passage will unfold, it seems natural that you are only building yourself up for disappointment. But my first ever championship parade did not disappoint. Not at all.

We woke up early...sometime around 7am...and as we made our way out of the apartment and towards the T stop at Packards Corner, we found ourselves in a city that did not resemble Boston. Streets that normally are barren at that hour on a Saturday morning were alive with people of all ages, all of whom were covered head to toe in red and blue with an umbrella in one hand and either coffee or beer in the other.

We found a perfect spot to watch the parade - Boylston Street, across from the Boston Public Library - and spent the next three hours waiting. And waiting. The crowd was electric, despite the weather and the lack of sleep. There was free cake, "Let's Go Red Sox" cheers, and a collection of imaginative signs, including one with a picture of Babe Ruth and the Cubs' goat in a very uncomfortable position under the heading "Fuck the Curse."

Finally, around 11:30am, we spotted the parade. Multicolored confetti filled the sky in front of us and the duckboats slowly made their way towards our spot on the street. Then it was a blur of screams, cheers, tears, hugs, and smiles from ear to ear. Johnny leaning out of the front of his duck boat, Bellhorn wearing the biggest smile I had ever seen, Pesky looking stunned by the emornity of the crowd, Manny holding up his "Jeter is golfing today - This is better" sign, Mientkiewicz in a backwards hat making my pants go crazy, Pedro and his Dominican flag cape, Trot pointing his video camera at us, Tek and Mirabelli sitting on the front of their duck boat, Theo talking into a microphone but being drowned out by the cheers, and the trophy. The beautiful gold trophy that inspired so many tears in grown men across the city. And just like that, it was over.

Instantly deciding we hadn't had enough, we made our way down to the Charles River, on the banks of which we stood, staring into the foggy distance waiting for one more taste of the parade. An hour later it was our chance to celebrate again. We watched as one of the boats swerved out of control, and it all made sense as it got closer and we saw that our very own ALDS MVP was in the drivers seat, too busy honking the horn like a madman to worry about steering it. There was Tek sitting on the side of the boat with his daughter on his lap. There was Schilling waving to the crowd, an intense look of satisfaction and appreciation in his eyes. There was awe in the eyes of every single player, amazed at the crowd that had gathered to thank them.

After the parade we walked slowly around the city, breathing in the air that smelled like a mixture of autumn, fresh rain, and unbridled passionate joy. We took pictures of the new Championship banner hanging on the State House and the altered Loews Theater sign that changed the name to Lowe's Theater.

It was 2pm when we walked through the front door of Foley's, my favorite Boston bar, and like a scene in a movie, we walked into a bar packed with smiling Sox fans singing along to "We Are The Champions." It would have been impossible to wipe the smile off my face at that point, and the same goes for the next few hours. The beer was flowing, the bar was packed, and the jukebox was playing Dirty Water and Sweet Caroline at least once an hour. Each time, conversations stopped, everyone turned their attention to the music, and suddenly the entire bar was family, hugging, dancing, and singing along to the songs that feel like home.

That day, I was definitely at home. I was in Boston, the home of the 2004 World Series Champion Boston Red Sox.

Finally.

I have returned from my Red Sox fantasy championship parade weekend, and it was nothing short of spectacular. The streets of Boston are overflowing with passion and ecstacy, and I can't imagine that there is a better place to be right now.

Recaps and pictures will come when I have recovered, but this picture pretty much says it all.