American Idol contestant Gideon McKinney sings the National Anthem at tonight’s Red White and Blues July 4th Celebration at Tom Lee Park. Get the details in the Flyer’s searchable online calendar.
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Month: July 2006
With our nation’s 230th birthday upon us, I found myself
considering the American qualities we’ve come to love in sports . . . and a few
that aren’t so American. As you read the following, feel free to hum “God Bless
America.” Or at least “Born in the U.S.A.”
American — Sunday afternoon at the ballpark. The
closest I know to bliss these days is the leftfield bluff at AutoZone Park with
my wife and two daughters as the weekend winds down. Even with all the
money-making twists and ventures that rule the big leagues, Sunday afternoon
tilts are every bit as common here in 2006 as they were in 1906. And that is
magnificently patriotic if you ask me.
Un-American — Sunday night college football. I
will not dignify the schools who are playing under the lights September 3rd by
naming them. (It’s bad enough the University of Memphis and Ole Miss are playing
that afternoon.) You see, the idea of college football is for our bright,
energetic student bodies to have an outlet at the start of their weekend, three
hours to do things their professors (and parents) might otherwise frown upon.
But the last three free hours before Monday morning classes? Come on, NCAA!
American — Youth-league soccer. Ahh, the beloved
Soccer Mom. First political demographic defined by a sport. (Think there are
football mums in England?) If you have a child under the age of 20, you know
full well life revolves around soccer schedules. If it’s not your own Jane or
Jimmy pulling on the shin-guards, one of their friends will be, every Saturday,
the rest of your natural life.
Un-American — World Cup soccer. Okay, let me see
if I remember this correctly. In a must-win World Cup showdown with Italy, the
United States team lost two players to red cards, forcing them to play with only
nine. Easing their plight, the Italians lost one of their players, too. So, you
have what hockey fans would call a power play for an entire half of soccer, 45
minutes. And the game ends up with the same score — 1 goal each — as nearly
every other bleepin’ match. What is the point of this, folks?!
American — NBA dunks. Dr. Naismith may have been
limited by the 10-foot doorways in his gym, but we American hoop fans will be
damned before we watch any roundball played below the rim. A three-pointer
drained by Reggie Miller was a thing of beauty, no doubt. But Michael Jordan on
a breakaway, nothing in his way but a poor net, clinging to its orange ring for
life? That, my fellow Americans, will raise the roof.
Un-American — NBA officiating. Basketball refs
deserve more credit than they get, as the game has become simply too quick —
and large — for them to follow with any degree of consistency. But here’s the
bottom line: watching a free throw is the most boring sight in spectator sports
(American or otherwise). To see so many games decided by an act around which
nine other athletes are standing still is, quite simply, sad. Let ’em play!
American — Major League Baseball All-Star Game.
Doesn’t get more American than a sports spectacle where the players are selected
by ballot! Who cares if Barry Bonds or Ken Griffey Jr. has missed two-thirds of
his team’s games . . . we love him, so he’s an All-Star! (The parallels to our
current mess in Washington are simply too easy here. I’ll leave them for you to
ponder.) Whoever heard of a sporting even designed . . . for the fans?
Beautiful.
Un-American — Home-field advantage in the World
Series determined by All-Star Game. If I didn’t know Bud Selig was behind this
decision, I’d be convinced it was the New Coke guy. Again, let me stress: the
players who start the All-Star Game do so based on POPULARITY. The baseball
brass — starting in the commissioner’s office — is allowing the game’s
signature event to be influenced by a popularity contest. We love democracy for
the All-Star Game. But the World Series? Workers of the world, unite!
American — Football in the rain (or snow) at
Lambeau Field. The Green Bay Packers have somehow managed to become the symbol
of classic, grind-through-the-mud, win-by-a-field-goal football . . . to the
point of becoming corny. So what if they’ve won but a single championship in 38
years? If you don’t have a favorite NFL team, you make the Packers your
favorite. Vince Lombardi invented the game, didn’t he?
Un-American — Football under a roof. I’ll grant
a concession to artificial turf, as science has come closer and closer to
replicating God’s green stuff. But blocking and tackling with shadows cast
merely by light fixtures? In the good name of Johnny Unitas, let the Colts play
outside!
Categories
Totally Tubular
Earlier this month, downtown blogger Paul Ryburn dubbed June the official month of the tube top. His daily posts preached the importance of that snug-fitting, cleavage-baring garment. He’s posted pictures of girls hanging out in tube tops. He’s told us where to buy tube tops. He discussed the difference the between a tube top and a halter top. He’s even doled out advice on how often women should wear tube tops: “At most 10 to 15 percent of the time. Wear something else the other days, and let us wish that you had the tube top on.”
But now that July is upon us, Ryburn has decided to extend the holiday through July 31st. What a guy.
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Keep Your Day Jobs
Dempseys’ promoter Rollin Riggs sent us this photo of his group’s recent gig with the Prez and Prime Minister Koizumi of Japan. Koizumi stepped to the mic and sang an Elvis tune. The president recorded the event for national security reasons and tapped the Dempseys’ phones and bank records.
This picture also raises the quesion of whether heads of state get together before joint appearances to discuss how they’ll dress: “Today, I’m going with an open-collared dress shirt and slacks. I’m rolling the sleeves up two turns.”
“Cool. Me too.”
For a slightly more accurate description of the event, go here.
Categories
Come Home, Al
“Let the reverend preach to you a little,” he told the crowd in the early going. He called for champagne from the bar, “the good stuff, not the cheap stuff,” then launched into a moving rendition of “Amazing Grace.”
That segue would be incongruous for almost anyone but Green, who exudes such sincere joy that it’s impossible not to be swept along with it.
Every time we read rapturous stories like this one in the Orlando Sentinal about Al Green’s transcendant performance there, we get a little jealous. How about a little sugar our bowl, Al?